Cheek me back again in self-same fashion,
Then my cheek may turn you to a poet.
You I think, would rather have this volume,
Even though I sadly mar its pages,
Would you not? Mate, linger over Ouida,
Yea, man read, those very red Gaboriaus,
Pall Malls, Globes, or blushing racy “Pink-un,”
Dear to travellers on the Inner Circle.
What of all this scribble? All this nonsense?
This; no rhymer lives that loves and longs not,