One morning as a work I framed, There passed a person, walking hard: “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed, “How very like my dear old bard! “Oh what a model he would make!” I rushed outside—impulsive me!— “Forgive the liberty I take, But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he. “You needn’t waste your breath or time,— I know what you are going to say,— That you’re an artist, and that I’m Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh? “You wish that I would sit to you?” I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, “I do!” “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.” I led him by his hallowed sleeve, And worked away at him apace, I painted him till dewy eve,— There never was a nobler face! “Oh sir,” I said, “a fortune grand Is yours, by dint of merest chance,— To sport _his_ brow at second hand, To wear _his_ cast-off countenance! “To rub _his_ eyes whene’er they ache— To wear _his_ baldness ere you’re old— To clean _his_ teeth when you awake— To blow _his_ nose when you’ve a cold!” His eyeballs glistened in his eyes— I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; “Bravo!” I said, “I recognise The phrensy of your prototype!” His scanty hair he wildly tore: “That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.” He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore— “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!” “Sir,” said the grand Shakespearean boy (Continuing to blaze away), “You think my face a source of joy; That shows you know not what you say. “Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I’m always thrown in some such state When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate. “For oh! this face—this pointed chin— This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin Of all the woes I ever knew! “If to the play my way I find, To see a grand Shakespearean piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind, Until the author’s puppets cease. “Men nudge each other—thus—and say, ‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’ And merry wags (of course in play) Cry ‘Author,’ when the piece is done. “In church the people stare at me, Their soul the sermon never binds; I catch them looking round to see, And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds. “And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown A bust with Brown’s insipid smile Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown, “Yet boldly make my face their own, When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire. “At parties where young ladies gaze, And I attempt to speak my joy, ‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’