Who when you wrote some doggrel verse,
Crimson with pride assured old nurse,
‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’
Pol.—[as conscious of genius]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who when the loutish age began,
And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran,
Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’
Pol.—[pulling up his collar, as though the maternity had well spoken]