See the lyrist lick the party hack at breathing fire and slaughter?
See the man of rhymes embrace the man of rant?
III.
Here the plea whereby the Poet apes, and charms, the Penny Paper—
“We are they whose works sensationally shine,
I was ever good at curses, Victor Hugo I’ll out-vapour,
And if there is a scurril tongue ’tis mine.”
IV.
Who would fear to back the Poet as a double-barrelled screamer,
Pure of morals, clean of language, free from bile?