Whether He the quaint savant's power doth hold I know not,  Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is -  Quoth I that for reasons to me oblivious  August of a granditude of servants is He held,  And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host added are -  Pelf they are, dare I say!  Maugre His diurnal seraphic deviltry  I say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -  Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;  To claim the glore is He suffer'd.  "Grant me the fallings", quoth He, "the fatter the better!",  And died they of starvation;  They are not slaughtering their fatlings;  They are slaughtering themselves.  Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,  And dare I say this burden weightful was,  Wrack of His machine-like motion was I named,  Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt  The machine alike - yet whetted a dight are its edges...