Kicks at desert, and crops wit's budding bays;
No baby grown, that still his coral keeps,
And sucks the thumb of science till he sleeps;
No mawkish son of sentiment who strains
Soft sonnet drops from barley-water brains;
No pointer of a paragraph, no peer,
That hangs a picture-pander at his ear;
No smatterer of the ciceroni crew,
No pauper of the parish of Virtú;
But starts an Aristarchus on the town,