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70 A question comes in Night's long hours, that haunts me like a spectre,

What kind of fish or fowl you'd call a "russet hippalector."

It was a ship's sign, idiot, such as every joiner fixes!

Indeed! I thought perhaps it meant that music-man Eryxis!

You like then, in a tragic play, a cock? You think it mixes?]

And what did you yourself produce, O fool with pride deluded?

Not "hippalectors," thank the Lord, nor "tragelaphs," as you did—

The sort of ornament they use to fill a Persian curtain!

—I had the Drama straight from you, all bloated and uncertain,

Weighed down with rich and heavy words, puffed out past comprehension.

I took the case in hand; applied treatment for such distension—

Beetroot, light phrases, little walks, hot book-juice, and cold reasoning;

Then fed her up on solos.

With Cephisophon for seasoning!