Why such irony in re the mystical context when a graph of even the most
           commonplace exchange would appear perplexed; when we drop out 
            from the plainest statement in the posture of a bat?
So, decide to make something of that, the style to resemble an English Aeneid 
            or Iliad. Do it like Dryden. No, up the bid. Do it as Wren did it at the 
            Sheldonian, which is like Dryden in stone. 
You’ve always been a name-dropper.
I believe I need them to charm away scrofula such as Sam Johnson suffered 
            from. “Chronic enlargement and degeneration of the lymphatic
            glands.” Thought to be healed by the application of regal well-anointed 
            hands. Dryden and Wren are kings; and English poetry has lately 
            incurred something squatly debilitating to the strength of even the most   
            common word.