Thou weild'st thy papers in thy threshing hand;
St André's[424] feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme,
Though they in number as in sense excel;[425]
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
}
That, pale with envy, Singleton[426] forswore }
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, }
And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.— }
Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,