I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
I’d be a parody made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza,
I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings
Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!
When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!