Momus is dead, and e'en that tricksy imp
Preposterous Puck hath too much native grit
To take the taste of Osrick turned a wit.
Humour baccilophil, microbic merriment,
Might suit him better. He will try the experiment.
His mirth's a smirk and not a paroxysm;
"Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism"
Do not disturb the "plie" of his prim lips,
Neither do cynic quirks and querulous quips.
Mirth would guffaw—when hearts and mouths were bigger,