1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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