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Only one little thing prevents
His triumph o'er our Will—
Nature, that gave him wit and sense,
Denied the poet's skill!
His triumph o'er our Will—
Nature, that gave him wit and sense,
Denied the poet's skill!
A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNFINISHED SATIRE
Not his the poet's gift—yet, to be fair,
Of talent no man has a larger share;
His brain's a radium battery charged with wit,
Which it doth inexhaustibly emit,
And in it too both light and heat combine,
And with a lustre never-darkened shine.
The world's his football which he kicks about,
Devoid alike of reverence or doubt;
Nothing's too serious to be made a jest of,
No cause so much advanced he's not abreast of;
No paradox so great he'll not defend it,
Nothing so holy that he will not end it:
And though you at his strange gyrations blink,
He forces you, spite of yourself, to think,
And that's a service than which none is greater,
Though dull men hate so rough an educater.
I find in him, I own, full many a flaw,
Yet say most heartily—Thank heaven for Shaw!
Of talent no man has a larger share;
His brain's a radium battery charged with wit,
Which it doth inexhaustibly emit,
And in it too both light and heat combine,
And with a lustre never-darkened shine.
The world's his football which he kicks about,
Devoid alike of reverence or doubt;
Nothing's too serious to be made a jest of,
No cause so much advanced he's not abreast of;
No paradox so great he'll not defend it,
Nothing so holy that he will not end it:
And though you at his strange gyrations blink,
He forces you, spite of yourself, to think,
And that's a service than which none is greater,
Though dull men hate so rough an educater.
I find in him, I own, full many a flaw,
Yet say most heartily—Thank heaven for Shaw!
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