My boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man's saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature's the worst. Though clever as clever can be— A Crichton of early romance— You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven't a chance! If you wish in the world to advance, Your merits you're bound to enhance, You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven't a chance! Now take, for example, my case: I've a bright intellectual brain— In all London city There's no one so witty— I've thought so again and again. I've a highly intelligent face— My features cannot be denied— But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in—and why, sir? I'm modesty personified! If you wish in the world to advance, etc. As a poet, I'm tender and quaint— I've passion and fervour and grace— From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place. Then I sing and I play and I paint: Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I'm diffident, modest, and shy! If you wish in the world to advance, etc. (Exit Robin.)