Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/340

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It's strange to think of it—upon my word, I half suspect my memory of lying—

[Turns to

But seven years ago—it sounds absurd!— I wasted office hours in versifying.

What! Office hours—!

Yes, such were my transgressions.

Silence for our solicitor's confessions!

But chiefly after five, when I was free, I'd rattle off whole reams of poetry— Ten—fifteen folios ere I went to bed—

I see—you gave your Pegasus his head, And off he tore—

On stamped or unstamped paper— 'Twas all the same to him—he'd prance and caper—

The spring of poetry flowed no less flush? But how, pray, did you teach it first to gush?