Who aping Pan, with an inverted broom
Canst brush the cobwebs from the brows of care.
Our gallery gods immortalize thy songs,
Thy Newgate thefts impart ecstatic pleasure;
Thou bidd'st a Jew's harp charm a Christian throng,
A Gothic salt-box teem with Attic treasure.
When Harlequin, his charmer to regain,
Courts her embrace in many a queer disguise,
The light of heels looks for his sword in vain—
Thy furtive fingers snatch the magic prize.