But the waves of the [Styx] looked foolish beside it;
“You mote as well liken the summer sky,”
Quoth Warren the bold, “with an Irish stye;
The nightingale’s note with the cockatoo’s whine,
As your lily-white river with me or mine.”
Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played
At the Strand manufacturer’s gasconade;
And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox,
He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box;
Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring,