That only sentimental stuff will sell!) Yet Radway went. A circumspectious prig! And then that woman like a guinea-pig Accosted, that’s the word, accosted him, Thereon the amorous calor slightly frosted him. (I burn, I freeze, I sweat, said the fair Greek, I speak in contradictions, so to speak.) I’ve told his training, he was never bashful, And his pockets by ma’s aid, that night with cash full, The invitation had no need of fine aesthetic, Nor did disgust prove such a strong emetic That we, with Masefield’s vein, in the next sentence Record “Odd’s blood! Ouch! Ouch!” a prayer, his swift repentance. No, no, they danced. The music grew much louder As he inhaled the still fumes of rice-powder. Then there came other nights, came slow but certain And were such nights that we should “draw the curtain” In writing fiction on uncertain chances Of publication; “Circumstances”, As the editor of _The Century_ says in print, “Compel a certain silence and restraint.” Still we will bring our “fiction as near to fact” as The Sunday school brings virtues into practice. Soon our hero could manage once a week, Not that his pay had risen, and no leak Was found in his employer’s cash. He learned the lay of cheaper places, And then Radway began to go the paces: A rosy path, a sort of vernal ingress, And Truth should here be careful of her thin dress— Though males of seventy, who fear truths naked harm us, Must think Truth looks as they do in wool pyjamas. (My country, I’ve said your morals and your thoughts are stale ones, But surely the worst of your old-women are the male ones.)