He glanced through his own soul;
And found all dead as a dishonoured bill,
Or emptied bowl.
He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded
The walks of coterie fame:
On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded
Concetti tame
And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue,
Erratic in their flight,
From studio to drawing-room he flung,