Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
    "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
    As easily as through a Naples bonnet —
    Trash of all trash! -- how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
    Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general Petrarchanities are arrant
Bubbles -- ephemeral and so transparent --
    But this is, now, -- you may depend upon it --
Stable, opaque, immortal -- all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.