SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.

I pray you, all ye men who put your trust

In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,

Holding that Nature lives from year to year

In one continual round because she must —

Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust

Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer —

A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,

Which holds a potful, as is right and just!

I will grow clamorous — by the rood, I will,

If thus ye use me like a pewter pot!

Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot —

Will not be the lead to hold thy swill,

Nor any lead: I will arise and spill

Thy silly beverage — spill it piping hot!