Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not, Albeit aetat a thousand stars' 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...