My friends, excuse me these rebukes!
Were I a monarch’s son, or duke’s,
Go to the Vatican of Meux
And broach his biggest barrels—
Impale whole elephants on spits—
Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits,
And dance into St. Vitus’ fits,
And break your winds with carols!
But ah! too well you know my lot,
Ancestral acres greet me not,