And, like the winds, can bear no fruit:

What good or profit can it bring?

POET.

Silence! mob of senseless grumblers,

Day-labourers, base slaves of slaves,

I loathe your shallow murmurs vile.

Ye worms of earth, no sons of heaven,

Your God is profit:.... by the pound

You weigh Apollo Belvedere:

The iron pot is dearer held,

Since it serves well to cook your food.

THE UNWASHED.

Nay, if thou be elect of God,

Thy gift, dear messenger divine,

Use kindly for our good and weal;

Correct and guide thy brethren's hearts.

We are, thou sayst, small-souled in aim,

Wicked, shameless, and ungrateful;

Our hearts are cold and dead to love,

Calumniators, slaves, and fools;

Each vice finds nest within our souls.

But thou art lover of thy kind,

And lessons bold in truth canst give;

And we will listen to thy words.

POET.

Away! Begone! What common tie

Can poet bind to such as you?

Be boldly hard in vice as rock;

Nor song, nor lyre can give you life,

In soul as senseless as the tomb;

For centuries you have well reaped,

And of your follies won the prize,

The whip, the prison, and the axe.