When brightest colours seem but dull in hue

And noblest arts are shown mechanical,

When study serves but to heap clue on clue

That no great line hath been or ever shall,

But hath a savour like some second stew

Of many pot-lots with a smack of all.

’Twas one man’s field, another’s hops the brew,

Twas vagrant accident not fate’s fore-call.

Horace, that thing of thine is overhauled,

And “Wood notes wild” weaves a concocted sonnet.

Here aery Shelley on the text hath called,

And here, Great Scott, the Murex, Keats comes on it.

And all the lot howl, “Sweet Simplicity!”

’Tis Art to hide our theft exquisitely.