Whether He the quaint savant's power doth hold I know not,

Albeit ætat a thousand stars' birth He is -

Quoth I that for reasons to me oblivious

August of a granditude of servants is He held,

And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host addéd are -

Pelf they are, dare I say!

Maugre His diurnal seraphic deviltry

I say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -

Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;

To claim the glore is He suffer'd.

«Grant me the fatlings», qouth He, «the fatter the better!»,

And died they of starvation;

They are not slaughtering their fatlings -

They are slaughtering 'hemselves.

Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,

And dare I say this burthen weightful was,

Wrack of His machine-like motion was I naméd,

Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt

The machine alike - yet whettéd and dight are its edges