The waste-paper basket was nearly full now, and still his poet’s sense told him that he had not achieved perfection. It had been his intention to pace the room, but the moonlight pouring in through the open window called to him. He went out on to the balcony. It was but a short distance to the dim, mysterious lawn. Impulsively he dropped from the stone balustrade.
The effect was magical. Stimulated by the improved conditions, his Muse gave quick service, and this time he saw at once that she had rung the bell and delivered the goods. One turn up and down the lawn, and he was reciting as follows:
Oh, lips that smile! Oh, eyes that shine
Like summer skies, or stars above!
Your beauty maddens me like wine,
Oh, umpty-pumpty-tumty love!
And he was just wondering, for he was a severe critic of his own work, whether that last line couldn’t be polished up a bit . . .
P. G. Wodehouse, The Fiery Wooing of Mordred, in Young Men in Spats (1936).