  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. |
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