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And I am asked for mere variety
To join my name with this society;
For tho' I wasn't rightly in't
I too hav pasted at a splint
And after wash'd my hands beslubber'd
Half-way downstairs i' the' housemaid's cupboard,
And follow'd others of the meinie
To sit around the steaming cheney,
Chatting with apostolic souls
Noel or Hack or Stuckey Coles,
The soft aroma and effulgence
Of afternones merged in th'indulgence

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Of a spiritual kindly hostess
(which is what butter on hot toast is),
In friendship that began maybe
In eighteen eighty two or three,
When Daniel printed my promethevs
—a thing that others judged beneath use—,
He living then in Worcester House
Along with many a rat and mouse,
Which multiplying as their manner is
Had overswarm'd the neighb'ring granaries.