Poor bufo confess’d, as he sate in the dark,
He had listen’d to porcupine’s brilliant remark,
And had thought it was due to himself and posterity,
T’ expose a new case of the poets’ temerity.
The poets, who kindly, but falsely, had said,
That he carried a beautiful gem in his head;
A jewel he thought would be quite out of place,
With his rustic brown coat, and his sallow green face,
And he knew not how people could think it was true,
Unless they had seen him when spangled with dew.