Believed they saw that which was not in sight—
Of course, ’twas not for me to set them right;
For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy’s as good as any other bam.
Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,
Battered and broken are their early lyres,
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warmed his young hands at Smithfield’s martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,