And form, all seem so poor and vile,
You, weary of the hackneyed crew
This one suggests the other’s cue.
As fresh as—twelve pence for a shilling,
No, never change can you renew,
For ballade-mongering is killing.
Envoy.
Rhymesters! The Envoy you will rue,
Since it should be supreme and thrilling;
It’s ended, tamely it is true,