When Monsieur Dumas said he was but an ass,
To bathe in the Hyde Park stagnation—stagnation.
On which hurry-scurry they flew in a hurry,
To shut Mrs. Gore in the Tower—the Tower—
With Juba and Pell, to amuse her as well,
Whilst she wrote fifteen novels an hour—an hour.
But Charles Dickens caught up a plate quick as thought,
And made it spin round on his finger—his finger:
Till Wellington came, and observing his game,
Was afraid any longer to linger—to linger.