(Browning again! now Keats!) O hapless pair,
Loth lover and bold maiden of a dim age—
Lost to us now, and dead, but still most fair.
O Attic shapes! Arcadian girlhood’s slim age,
And silken youth with brilliantined hair!
What climaxes must I not sacrifice,
Who write this epic at a weekly price?
For—as long melodies are sweet, but sweeter
Poems in short instalments, such as mine—
Seven full days, teased puppet of this metre,