If Naples were mine
Of adulation, I will singe many a line
In the flaming embers of time
I will play some fool
By standing aloof
I will wear a worn
By lying some low
I will swear a oath
In ascetism tickling a torn
For so it is said
That a man at his best
Is known in the pomp of his wealth
By the barrels of his wine
And the class of flocks at his dine
For sages sometimes loose their wits
As drunk artisans their kits
But what state
Is a man so much graced
Than the posture of a shoulder laced
With degrees of honours
And a balanced reverse of humility