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Then when you chance to end a line with 'fumble,' A splendid choice you have in 'mumble, tumble,' And several others, not forgetting 'Bumble.'[1] The very words have such a humorous pathos— (A contradiction is it? well, say bathos) That even a tyro in the rhyming art Easily finds the first rhyme's counterpart, And feels at once that he's a heaven-born poet, And vows the ignorant world shall quickly know it, Taking for inspiration what is due To the rhymes alone—but so perhaps would you.
"Well, sir! now you've described the rhymer's woes, What remedy for them do you propose? Would you our native tongue Italianate Unskilful rhymers to accommodate? Rob it of all its rugged strength and power To make it fitter for a lady's bower? Create new rhymes to ease the poet's task, His laziness and emptiness to mask?"
No, my good friend! our language rough and strong No equal owns for music and for song When handled by a true son of Apollo! What matter though it soundeth harsh and hollow When poetasters use it! 'Twas my end In seeming to decry it, to commend, As lovers will sometimes each other rally With many a bantering and witty sally,
  1. ↑
    (But you must not forget the muse decrees In serious verse you can't use words like these; There's something in their very sound to tickle us, And render the most solemn verse ridiculous.)

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