True Diffidence.

My boy, you may take it from me,     That of all the afflictions accurst     With which a man's saddled     And hampered and addled,     A diffident nature's the worst.     Though clever as clever can be     A Crichton of early romance     You must stir it and stump it,     And blow your own trumpet,     Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.     Now take, for example, my case:     I've a bright intellectual brain     In all London city     There's no one so witty     I've thought so again and again.     I've a highly intelligent face     My features cannot be denied     But, whatever I try, sir,     I fail in and why, sir?     I'm modesty personified!     As a poet, I'm tender and quaint     I've passion and fervor and grace     From Ovid and Horace     To Swinburne and Morris,     They all of them take a back place,     Then I sing and I play and I paint;     Though none are accomplished as I,     To say so were treason:     You ask me the reason?     I'm diffident, modest and shy!