The reek of putrid cabbage when it's hot?
Or, with the game all square and one to play,
To be defeated by a stymie? Nay,
I know of something worse—I'll tell you what.
It is to have your rotten childish rhymes
(Rotten as these) dragged from oblivion's shroud
Where, with the silly act that gave them birth,
They lay as lie the dead in sacred earth,
And see them, twice in one week, boomed aloud
To tickle penny readers of The Times.