"Though cold the coxcomb, and though coarse the boor,
Though dulness haunts the rich and pain the poor,
In this colossal city,
Yet London is not Rome, O Shade!" I said.
"A later Juvenal should not find her dead
To purity and pity."
"Satire, of shames and follies in sole quest,
Is a one-eyed divinity at best,"
My guide responded, slowly.
"The tale of Zoïlus hath its moral still.