He rivals Homer’s god-enraptured dreams;
And wonders in his pride, himself to see,
The very pattern-pink of poesy.
Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,
The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.
It is the madness of each one to pride
Himself on that ’twere better far to hide;
Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack
Which Æsop says is hanging at his back.