Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not
Albeit aetat a thousand stars N birth He is
Zuoth 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 addéd are

Pelf they are, dare I say!

Maugre His diurnal serphic 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, gouth 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...

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