Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly, Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!
Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by, What conscious plagiarists we are: Moliere and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, "Je prends mon bien ou je le trouve!"
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