IV.
Again they looked for a bard divine.
'Here's one,' they exclaimed, 'should be preferred
A poet the half of whose name is Swine,
Is fittest to sing to the swinish herd.
But Swine and burn suggest in their turn
Ideas a little too gross and warm;
And a poet who writes of hermaphrodites
Is scarcely the man to weather the storm.
So Swineburne, too,