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 addÃ©d 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 namÃ©d,
Tho` blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike - yet whettÃ©d and dight are its edges...