Whether He the quaint savant's power doth hold I know not Albeit ætat a thousand stars' birth He is, birth He is, 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 addédare 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