1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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