Chapter 541 of 1964 · 58 words · ~1 min read

XCIV.

Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, Are good manure for their more bare biography; Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typography; A drowsy, frowzy poem, called the "Excursion," Writ in a manner which is my aversion.