1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14the best of all things to an end must come