Thou grape of Hebe, over-ripe with rhyme;
Thou lump of Clio, mountain of Terpsichore;
Diogenes, that talkest in thy tub!
Fie, Mother Earth!—Cling not about my waist
As if I were a weanling sphere. Fall off!
Ye gods! that kneaded this incongruous dough
With lyric leaven, sweat me to a rake-handle
Or let the Muse grow fat!
[Exit.]
FRIAR