Without offending.
Benevolence the crupper mounts,
His arms, like Sancho's, from behind fold;
But it would seem, from all accounts,
He, like Don Quixote's Squire, rides blindfold;
It may be to most glorious ends,
It may be to disastrous spillings.
Sense fain would know before it spends
Its hard-earned shillings.
If all were genuine that is Big,