Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.
We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future!
We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble babble—die!
Serve them right.
What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?
Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query;
'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald,
No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work.
I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.
I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country).