O Rudyard Kipling! Phoebus! What a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!
O Rudyard Kipling, for a moment think
What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!
Thy name already tires the public ear,
One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;
For though they make a decent show of print
The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.
O Rudyard Kipling! cease to scribble rhymes,