WE know him, out of Shakespeare’s art,
And those fine curses which he spoke--
The Old Timon with his noble heart,
That strongly loathing, greatly broke.
So died the Old; here comes the New;
Regard him--a familiar face;
I thought we knew him. What! it’s you,
The padded man that wears the stays;
Who killed the girls, and thrilled the boys
With dandy pathos when you wrote:
O Lion, you that made a noise,
And shook a mane _en papillotes_....
What profits now to understand
The merits of a spotless shirt,
A dapper boot, a little hand,
If half the little soul is dirt?...
A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame!
It looks too arrogant a jest--
That fierce old man, to take his name,
You bandbox! Off, and let him rest!
_Alfred Tennyson._