Whether he the quaint savant's power doth hold, I know not Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth he is Birth he is, birth he is Quoth I that for reasons to me oblivious August of a granditude of servants is he held And by plastic consonantry E'en more servants to the host added are Pelf they are, dare I say ♪ Maugre his diurnal seraphic deviltry I say that deviltry, 'tis forsooth deviltry Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is To claim the glore is he suffered "Grant me the fatlings (quoth he) the fatter the better" And died they of starvation They are not slaughtering their fatlings They are slaughtering themselves ♪ Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask And dare I say this burden weightful was Wrack of his machine-like motion was I named Tho' blind and fond, the jesters rebuilt The machine alike, oh, oh, oh (yet whetted) Whetted and dight, oh, oh, oh (are its edges) The machine alike, oh, oh, oh (yet whetted) Whetted and dight, oh, oh, oh (are its edges)