And still he's in the self-same place,
Where at his setting out he was:
So, in the circle of the arts,
Did he advance his nat'ral parts:
Till falling back still, for retreat,
He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat:
For as those fowls that live in water
Are never wet, he did but smatter:
Whate'er he labour'd to appear,
His understanding still was clear,