For we, in sooth, our duty well have done
By Robert Browning.
Have we not wrought at essay and critique,
Scorning supine ease?
Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,
Baffling as Chinese?
Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,
Lucid of soul, and
Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;
Cleared up Childe Roland.