You fatten, with oceans of drink undrained?
You feed—who would choke did a cobweb smutch
The Age you love so much?
A mine's beneath a moor:
Acres of moor roof fathoms of mine
Which diamonds dot where you please to dig;
Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?
Your product is—truffles, you hunt with a pig!
Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,