And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry Bob!
I would not imitate the petty thought
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary was’t for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the excise.
You’re shabby fellows—true—but poets still,