One winter’s evening Keats looked up to find Chapman regarding him closely. He naturally enquired the reason for this scrutiny.
‘I was thinking about those warts on your face,’ Chapman said.
‘What about them?’ the poet said testily.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Chapman said. ‘It just occurred to me that you might like to have them removed.’
‘They are there for years,’ Keats said, ‘and I don’t see any particular reason for getting worried about them now.’
‘But they are rather a blemish,’ Chapman persisted. ‘I wouldn’t mind one – but four fairly close together, that’s rather—’
‘Four?’ Keats cried ‘There were only three there this morning!’
‘There are four there now,’ Chapman said.
‘That’s a new one on me,’ Keats said.