At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum