Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter,
With less of ink than incoherence fraught,
Befits the folly that it tries to utter.
Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter:
You suffer from impediment of thought.
Save when considering your bread-and-butter.
When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care:
Your fingers being thumbs, point Heaven knows where!
Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame,
Bear witness how my anger I can tame:
I've called you everything except your hateful name!
TO OSCAR WILDE
Because from Folly's lips you got
Some babbled mandate to subdue
The realm of Common Sense, and you
Made promise and considered not, —
Because you strike a random blow
At what you do not understand.
And beckon with a friendly hand
To something that you do not know,
