Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;

Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,

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Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,

Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,

Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,

Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,

But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’!

His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic,

Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!

Vainly the stolid Spectator, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,

Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!

Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,

Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon––

Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction

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Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’;

(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,

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