“I forget it.”
“How can you forget it when it’s your own?”
“Well, I have.”
“Shan’t—One-two-three.”
Marcus knew it to be the fashion among poets to read their own works. He wondered if they needed treatment as drastic as this, or if they did it more willingly? In the muse of charity perhaps they did.
“One—two—three,” said Diana sternly, and Shan’t began:
“Swing me higher,
Oh, Delia, oh, Delia!
Swing me over the garden wall—
Only do not let me fall.