There is an ape in Paris,
To which was given a wife:
Like many a one that marries,
This ape, in brutal strife,
Soon beat her out of life.
Their infant cries,–perhaps not fed,:
But cries, I ween, in vain;
The father laughs: his wife is dead,
And he has other loves again,
Which he will also beat, I think,:
Return”d from tavern drown”d in drink.
For aught that”s good, you need not look
Among the imitative tribe;
A monkey be it, or what makes a book:
The worse, I deem–the aping scribe.