Of lank Philippides so mere a shade:
Of salted tunny-fish their scanty dole;
Their beverage, like the frog's, a standing pool,
With now and then a cabbage, at the best
The leavings of the caterpillar's feast:
No comb approaches their dishevell'd hair,
To rout the long establish'd myriads there;
On the bare ground their bed, nor do they know
A warmer coverlid than serves the crow:
Flames the meridian sun without a cloud?