Should mischief thee, imponderable pat.
Ah, mine no more! for lo! 'tis noised around
How thou wilt soon cost seven bob a pound.
As well demand thy weight in radium
As probe my 'poverished poke for such a sum.
Wherefore, farewell! No more, alas! thou'lt oil
These joints that creak with unrewarded toil;
No more thy heartsick votary's midmost riff
Wilt lubricate, and, oh! (as Wordsworth says) the diff!
Algol.