Samuel Butler

He knew what 's what, and that 's as high As metaphysic wit can fly.

For every why he had a wherefore.

Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For every why he had a wherefore.

Each window like a pill'ry appears, With heads thrust thro' nail'd by the ears.

Who thought he 'd won The field as certain as a gun.

For what is worth in anything But so much money as 't will bring?

And force them, though it was in spite Of Nature and their stars, to write.

And poets by their sufferings grow,-- As if there were no more to do, To make a poet excellent, But only want and discontent.

Some force whole regions, in despite O' geography, to change their site; Make former times shake hands with latter, And that which was before come after. But those that write in rhyme still make The one verse for the other's sake; For one for sense, and one for rhyme, I think 's sufficient at one time.

While the honour thou hast got Is spick and span new.