After which just to vary the pleasures, Rousseau
By Emile—no: Emile by Rousseau? Gad! I know
That which ever it be it's infernally slow,
And I'm glad Billy's neither Emile nor Rousseau—
Such my fate is to listen to, longing to slope—
Then come horrid long epics of Dryden and Pope,
Which I mentally swear a big oath I'll confine
To the tombs of the Capulets, every line—
Not but what the old beggars may do in their way,
Gad! Uncommonly fine soporifics are they;