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

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!