No depths in the rhyming vein—
Not a drop of sweat
In the deft coup-let,
Or ache in a whole quatrain;
And editor-men, with their bags of gold,
Come out from their inky lairs,
And they doff their caps
To the rhymer-chaps,
As they bid for the rhymer’s wares.
So we sit aloft in our cushioned chairs