You are such a fellow! The sages turn yellow,
The wits all go pallid, and so do the heroes;
Big Brontes grow jealous when you blow the bellows,
A fig for your CÆSARS, ISKANDERS, and NEROS!
You lick them all hollow, great Vulcan-Apollo,
Sole lord of our consciences, lives, arts, and armies!
But (like Mrs. A., Sir) 'twould floor you to say, Sir,
Where, what, in the mischief the source of your charm is!
Say, how do you do it? That Georgian's cue, it,
Compared with your sceptre, is just a mere withy.