Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile,
Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art,
But if the line flows smoothly to its end,
For ever bathing in the Aonean font;
Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight,
And so he reads his part. Next comes in view
The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist,
Seeking for rapture in the—dashy—line,
The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s,
They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes.