Now if I’m wrong, sirs, set me right,
Banks, Herschell, Loft, and Walkers,
All you who of cropt Comets are,
The astronomic talkers;
Go tell the town I’m nebulous,
Word “caviare to the million,”
Swear radiant Phœbus Cromwell cropt,
The Comet’s perehelion.
Enquirers into nature say,
That bucks, when rutting’s over,