Is there a man on earth so perfect found,
Who ne'er mistook a word in sense or sound?
Not blund'ring, but persisting is the fault;
No mortal sin is Lapsus Linguae thought:
Clerks may mistake; considering who 'tis from,
I pardon little slips in Cler. Dom. Com.
But let me tell you I'll not take his part,
If ev'ry Thursday he date Die Mart
Of sputt'ring mortals, 'tis the fatal curse,
By mending blunders still to make them worse.
Men sneer when — gets a lucky thought,
And stare if Wyndham should be nodding caught.
But sleeping's what the wisest men may do,
Should the committee chance to sit till two.