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