My boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst.
Though clever as clever can be —
A Crichton of early romance —
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you have n't a chance.
Now take, for example, my case:
I've a bright intellectual brain —
In all London city
There's no one so witty —
I've thought so again and again.
I've a highly intelligent face —
My features cannot be denied —
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in — and why, sir?
I'm modesty personified!
As a poet, I'm tender and quaint —
I've passion and fervor and grace —
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place,
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I'm diffident, modest and shy!