Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With gravity at gravity's great cog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come