George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
George Meredith
Unhappy poets of a sunken prime!
You to reviewers are as ball to bat.
They shadow you with Homer, knock you flat
With Shakespeare: bludgeons brainingly sublime
On you the excommunicates of Rhyme,
Because you sing not in the living Fat.
The wiry whizz of an intrusive gnat
Is verse that shuns their self-producing time.
Sound them their clocks, with loud alarum trump,
Or watches ticking temporal at their fobs,
You win their pleased attention. But, bright God
O' the lyre, what bully-drawlers they applaud!
Rather for us a tavеrn-catch, and bump
Chorus where Lumpkin with his Giles hobnobs.
The Point of Taste was written by George Meredith.