Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music?  The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air‚ then a dozen bars of his own‚ then a few more notes of the Air‚ and so on alternately:  thus saving the listener‚ if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all‚ at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form.  The process is termed “setting” by Composers‚ and any one‚ that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar‚ will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison ­whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!” ­yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles:  and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer:  so also ­

  I never loved a dear Gazelle ­
    Nor anything that cost me much: 
  High prices profit those who sell,
    But why should I be fond of such?

  To glad me with his soft black eye
    My son comes trotting home from school;
  He’s had a fight, but can’t tell why ­
    He always was a little fool!

  But, when he came to know me well,
    He kicked me out, her testy Sire: 
  And when I stained my hair, that Belle,
    Might note the change, and thus admire

  And love me, it was sure to dye
    A muddy green or staring blue: 
  Whilst one might trace, with half an eye,
    The still triumphant carrot through.