Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
Whereon he left the poet-born’s estate
And wrote like one who’d happened to be made.
A WANING MUSE
“Why art thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.
So blue was he I feared he would not speak.
“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply—
“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”
MODESTY
“What hundred books are best, think you?” I said,