Keen as a hawk each fault to seize,
And Swift to blame, as slow to please;
Swell'd up with pride to height of tumour,
Though all admired his dogged humour.
But since our Pompey knew not how
To speak, as 'twere, but in 'bow wow!'
The Muse invites me to rehearse
His constant bark in doggrel verse:
Keen irony can't hope to chime
Without some small relief from rhyme,