Changes, on the observation that some men we do not know
Have crept up by other paths, and share our glory as we go.
And these interlopers blending thoughts of fame and pelf are vending
Various wares while they're ascending. Fox the public fancy hits,
At so much per scratch revealing scratches on the walls and ceiling,
Made with infinite good feeling, by dead heroes, bards, and wits,
To amuse an epileptic milliner between her fits.
Reichenbach here runs up, saying he can see a marsh light playing
On the hill in open day; in swamps to sink above his knees
For his pains he is devoted. 'Mongst the rest, too, here, I noted