Why do men call me a presumptuous cur, A vapouring blockhead, and a turgid fool, A common nuisance, and a charlatan? I’ve dashed into the sea of metaphor With as strong paddles as the sturdiest ship That churns Medusæ into liquid light, And hashed at every object in my way. My ends are public. I have talked of men As my familiars, whom I never saw. Nay—more to raise my credit—I have penned Epistles to the great ones of the land, When some attack might make them slightly sore, Assuring them, in faith, it was not I. What was their answer? Marry—shortly this: “Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you?” I have reviewed myself incessantly— Yea, made a contract with a kindred soul For mutual interchange of puffery. Gods—how we blew each other! But, ’tis past— Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect, That, in some fit of loathing or disgust, Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me. And yet I am Apollodorus still! I search for genius, having it myself, With keen and earnest longings. I survive To disentangle, from the imping wings Of our young poets, their crustaceous slough. I watch them, as the watcher on the brook Sees the young salmon wrestling from its egg, And revels in its future bright career. Ha! what seraphic melody is this? _Enter_ SANCHO, _a Costermonger, singing_. Down in the garden behind the wall, Merrily grows the bright-green leek; The old sow grunts as the acorns fall, The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak. One for the litter, and three for the teat— Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet! APOLLODORUS. Now, heaven be thanked! here is a genuine bard, A creature of high impulse, one unsoiled By coarse conventionalities of rule. He labours not to sing, for his bright thoughts Resolve themselves at once into a strain Without the aid of balanced artifice. All hail, great poet! SANCHO. Save you, my merry master! Need you any leeks or onions? Here’s the primest cauliflower, though I say it, in all Badajoz. Set it up at a distance of some ten yards, and I’ll forfeit my ass if it does not look bigger than the Alcayde’s wig. Or would these radishes suit your turn? There’s nothing like your radish for cooling the blood and purging distempered humours. APOLLODORUS.