10That in Queen's College Library does stand.
The cutting hanger of your Wit I can't see,
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:
Thus a black velvet casket hides a jewel;
And a dark woodhouse, wholesome winter fuel;
Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,
By boxing up his new-found rarities;
We dread Actaeon's fate, dare not look on,
When you do scower your skin in Helicon;