In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till his gold-cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round [our rifled tops] like tickled flowers with flowers.
See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
Elfin court ’twould seem,