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Only one little thing prevents His triumph o'er our Will— Nature, that gave him wit and sense, Denied the poet's skill!

A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNFINISHED SATIRE

Not his the poet's gift—yet, to be fair, Of talent no man has a larger share; His brain's a radium battery charged with wit, Which it doth inexhaustibly emit, And in it too both light and heat combine, And with a lustre never-darkened shine. The world's his football which he kicks about, Devoid alike of reverence or doubt; Nothing's too serious to be made a jest of, No cause so much advanced he's not abreast of; No paradox so great he'll not defend it, Nothing so holy that he will not end it: And though you at his strange gyrations blink, He forces you, spite of yourself, to think, And that's a service than which none is greater, Though dull men hate so rough an educater. I find in him, I own, full many a flaw, Yet say most heartily—Thank heaven for Shaw!

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