O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes
Whence you still peeped in the shade.
Sure you were wishful to speak?
You, with brow ruled like a score,
Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek,
Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore,
Each side that bar, your straight beak!
Sure you said—"Good, the mere notes!
Still, couldst thou take my intent,
Know what procured me our Company's votes—