[from Manx Soc vol 16]
GOOD rightly yields to fate,
And wears no wig upon his pate;
For where's the wig's capacious size
Could hide such huge ears from men's eyes?
MINOS, though doomed to judge in hell so torrid,
Could keep his temper cool, and balance even,
But Mona's Midas gets in rage so horrid,
He C--e frights, and paralyses S-n;
Upsets his scales, and, in his rabid fury,
Pelts with the weights the audience, bar, and jury
Smashes his specs, and dints the desk with blows,
Until the snappish choler quivers in his nose.