Sing thou of perfection, of what you claim
to see. But leave you the sound of my name.
That note is mine to keep, and to bestow
on those who find my favor. You must know
the patent sentiment I keep of you.
No? Then hast thou been outfaced by the dew?
Tis simple, vapid, crystalline. Now mind,
you claim faultless sight, then prove yourself blind.