by Anthony "Polidori" Mellors
Lord Quinton thus: ‘Who best can send on high
The salient spout far-streaming to the sky;
His be a fellowship of great import,
To Arsehole’s, grotto of lugubrious thought,
Where Isis’ tides retire to Lethe’s floating pall,
Its torpid members rise but to the bloating hall.
The Grover’s of Academe in Bacchus’ heady aura frown,
Till human voices wake them, and they drown.’
First Henrey braves the glorious strife,
(In courting fame, he thinks to get a wife)
And on his manly confidence relies,
His lack of vigour and ‘superior’ size.
Thus Henrey strain’d by Rawley’s garden post;
It rose, and labour’d to a curve at most.
So Jove’s bright bow displays its watr’y round,
(Sure sign that spectators shall be drown’d):
A second effort brought but new disgrace,
The wild meander wash’d poor Hector’s face:
Thus the small jet, which hasty hands unlock,
Spurt in th’astronomer’s eyes, who flees the cock.
While thoughts are rapt in starry majesty on high,
A shower falls, but comes not from the sky.
But now to shameless Rob: impetuous spread
His stream, and steaming flourish’d o’er his head.
So (famed like us as Quinton’s sickly Fawns)
Harington opes the flood-gates, and loudly yawns:
Through half the heavens he pours the exalted urn;
His rapid waters in their passage burn.
Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes;
‘Enough!’ cries Quinton, ‘Thou hast won the prize;
Ease be yours today, in Arsehole’s drowsy vale,
Who now dost think thyself both hearty and hale,
There to dwell ’midst learning’s drooping heads,
Who scarce would leave their meals or shun their stagnant beds.
But weep not, Sir Danny, thy frame’s remaining moisture,
Thou who hast long been pent in College quad and cloister:
A world awaits thee, far from Isis’ melancholic banks
Where I have not encroach’d; for that, good God, give thanks.’