LXXVII
Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that sane
And sound Tribunal, delegates august
Of Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train—
Whom every poetaster tries to thrust
From where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine:
Fruitless endeavor,—fail it shall and must!
Whereof in witness have not one and all
The Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul"?
LXXVIII