Master Swinburne, and squeal’d, glaring out through his hair,
‘All Virtue is bosh! Hallelujah for Lander!
I disbelieve wholly in everything!—there!’
“With language so awful he dared then to treat ’em,—
Miss Ingelow fainted in Tennyson’s arms,
Poor Arnold rush’d out, crying ‘Sœcl’inficetum!’
And great bards and small bards were full of alarms;
Till Tennyson, flaming and red as a gipsy,
Struck his fist on the table and uttered a shout:
‘To the door with the boy! Call a cab! He is tipsy!’