Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently

Astrologers That Future Fates Foreshow.

As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows The Tree.

Satire's My Weapon, But I'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.

How Glowing Guilt Exalts The Keen Delight!

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!