I'm sick of the worry and rot of it!
Pity the artist! What boots that appeal?
No! "Many help one," or "A heart that can feel,"
Won't fetch 'em, however well flourished.
I did think that Guy Fawkes blow-up of the Lords
Would call out the coppers; but shrugs and cold words
Have damped the last hope that I nourished.
Awful cynicle lot! Scarcely one a believer
In me, it would seem, since that there Grand Old Screever
To my hands has turned his pitch over.