Amidst the court a Gothic fountain played,

Symmetrical, but decked with carvings quaint—

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:

The spring gushed through grim mouths of granite made,

And sparkled into basins, where it spent

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,

Like man's vain Glory, and his vainer troubles.