1When one with t’other straightaway agrees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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