His scanty hair he wildly tore:
“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”
He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—
“Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”
“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy
(Continuing to blaze away),
“You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.
“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps:
I’m always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.
“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—
This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin
Of all the woes I ever knew!
“If to the play my way I find,
To see a grand Shakesperian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author’s puppets cease.
“Men nudge each other—thus—and say,
‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.
“In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.
“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown’s insipid smile,
Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown,
“Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone
With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire.
“At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says,
‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’