To sing toward heaven like the meadow-lark,
Till, with her parting, it drops dumb again
In the old quag of flesh.
Flesh, Geoffrey! Fie!
What need to guard from sight the poet in thee
When nature thus hath hoop’d and wadded him
With barracoons of paunch? What say, thou tun?
Will Eglantine mistake thee for Apollo,
Thou jewel in the bloated toad; thou bagpipe
Puff’d by the Muse; thou demijohn of nectar;