Punnet Sive Pundigrion

SCORN not the Pun; nay, Pundit, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honors; with this vein
Shakespeare brought down the house; a saint was fain
On ‘Angeli non Angli’ kirks to found.
A score of times this pipe did Chaucer sound;
With it did Tully soothe an exile’s pain;
And Lowell, Holmes — twain plus another Twain
Making but three! — Carrolled their merry round.
To savory Lamb it adds a minty sauce.
Cervantes, Hood, Smith, turned it at command
Pan-pipe or kettle-drum; before chill loss
Darkened the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a whistle,¹ whence he blew
Clear tintinnating strains — though short and few.