He has it in that chair.
NORTH.
A Taste and a Genius for Words! An ear for the beautiful music of Words! A happy justness in the perception of their strict proprieties! A fine skill in apprehending the secret relations of Thought with Thought—relations along which the mind moves with creative power, to find out for its own use, and for the use of all minds to come, some hitherto uncreated expression of an idea—an image—a sentiment—a passion! These dispositions, and these faculties of the Scholar in another Mind falling in with other faculties of genius, produce a student of a different name—The Poet.
BULLER.
Oh! my dear dear sir, of Poetry we surely had enough—I don't say more than enough—a few days ago, sir.
NORTH.
Who is the Poet?
BULLER.
I beseech you let the Poet alone for this evening.
NORTH.