And with nine grains of Rhubard, stellified,
As low as to the altitude of shame,
He thrust four Onions in a Candle-case,
And spoil’d the meaning of the world’s misdoubt.
Thus with a Dialogue of crimson Starch,
I was inflamed with a nun-cold fire,
Upon the tenterhooks of Charlemagne.
The Dogstar howl’d, the Cat a Mountain smil’d,
And Sisyphus drank Muscadel and eggs,
In the horn’d hoof of huge Bucephalus,