As on a dotard quite bereaved:
Which, when the moralist perceived,
(Rather himself a wit profess’d
Than the poor subject of a jest)
Into the public way he flung
A bow that he had just unstrung:
“There solve, thou conjurer,” he cries,
“The problem, that before thee lies.”
The people throng; he racks his brain,
Nor can the thing enjoin’d explain.