See that old knave by Pallas' shrine,
He lurks there when the weather's fine,
Or favours, if it chance to rain,
The doorway of our nearest fane;
With staff and scrip he lounges there
With ragged beard and matted hair;
That greasy cloak at night is spread,
The only blanket, on his bed.
He snarls and whines to passers-by
Who fling him scraps for charity.
You say, misled by signs like these,
‘Some pupil of Diogenes’?
Nay, he is no philosopher,
But less a cynic than a cur.