Grins in the very face of those who ask,
Or think, or dream that truth should be their guide;
Nay, grins at truth itself, as at a fool
Tricked in his grandsire’s rags, a rustic oaf,
A blundering country simpleton who gapes
At the great city’s reeling dance of lies,
How can the grounds be wanting?”
“The true grounds,”
His ‘Theophrastus’ muttered, “we know too well.
Eurymedon, and the rest, those gnat-like clans,