One silver-haired old man who swears by me,
Who comforts me be Times with lines of praise,
And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors:
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
No matter! He proclaims me eminent,
And in his burning words no trace of slate—
Thus may I hope again.