‘The world’s great age begins anew,’

Cold virtue’s weeds are cast;

Our heads are light, our tales are blue,

And things are moving fast;

And no one any longer quarrels

With anybody else’s morals.

A racier journal stamps its pages

With Beardsleys braver far;

A bolder Editor engages

To shame the morning star,

On London Nights, not near so chilly,

Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.

62

Satyr and Faun their late repose

Now burst like anything;

New MÆnads, turning sprightlier toes,

Enjoy a jauntier fling;

With lustier lips old Pan shall play

Drain-pipes along the sewer’s way.

Priapus, wrongly left for dead,

Is dead no more than Pan;

Silenus rises from his bed

And hiccups like a man;

There’s something rather chaste (between us)

About Priapus and Silenus.

O cease to brew your Bodley pap

Whence all the spice is spent!

The splendour of its primal tap

Was gone when Aubrey went;

Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare

Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair.

63

Another Magazine shall rise

And paint the palsied town,

Of humbler hue, of simpler size,

And sold at half a crown;

Please note the pregnant brand––Savoy,

And don’t confuse with saveloy.[*]