(As it might have appeared to Byron)
Ephemeral minstrel, staring at the sky, Dost thou despise the earth where wrongs abound,Or, eyeing me, hast thou the other eye Still on the Court, with pay-day coming round,That pension that could bring thee down at willThose rebel wings composed, that protest still?
Past the trace of meaning and beyond Mount, darling babbler, that pay-prompted strain'Twixt thee and Kings a never-failing bond Swells not the less their carnage o'er the plain.Type of the wise, who drill but never fight,True to the kindred points of Might and Right.
