But Simon, the cynic, still looked with a sneer,
And ev’ry time Roland waked, grinned with a leer;
And assuming his swagger with impudent mocking,
He sang with a ribaldry meant to be shocking.
SIMON’S SONG
Arrayed in fine linen, we go to a ball,
Where we banquet with friends whom we joyously meet,
And we revel down wine and the savories all
Mid flowers and the music so lang’rously sweet;
But anon, while we linger the banqueting sours