If a great poet think he sings,

Or if the poem think it's sung,

They do but sport the scattered plumes

That Mother Goose aside hath flung.

Far or forgot to me is near:

Shakspeare and Punch are all the same;

The vanished thoughts do reappear,

And shape themselves to fun or fame.

They use my quills, and leave me out,

Oblivious that I wear the wings;

Or that a Goose has been about,

When every little gosling sings.

Strong men may strive for grander thought,

But, six times out of every seven,

My old philosophy hath taught

All they can master this side heaven.