The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea—
Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth,
So why this unprovoked attack on me,—
This—regular slate?
You—you—who, I admit, can write,
If you have talked of “kicking” to my face:—
Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight,
And kick you at your place;
And may—though late, though late.
II.
The Bard.
Another Companion Poem. A Reply.