Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum