My heavy mantle off I throw,
And I draw my polished steel;
Graceful as Phœbus, round I wheel,
Alert at Scaramouch,
A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal,—
At the envoi's end, I touch!
[They engage.]
Better for you had you lain low;
Where skewer my cock? In the heel?—
In the heart, your ribbon blue below?—
In the hip, and make you kneel?
Ho for the music of clothing steel!
—What now?—A hit? Not much!
'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal,
When, at the envoi, I touch.
Oh for a rhyme, a rhyme in o?
You wriggle, starch-white, my eel?
A rhyme! a rhyme! the white feather you show!
Tac! I parry the point of your steel;
—The point you hoped to make me feel;
I open the line, now clutch
Your spit, Sir Scullion,—show your zeal!
At the envoi's end, I touch!
[He declaims solemnly.]
Envoi.
Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal!
I move a pace—lo, such! and such!
Cut over,—feint!
[Thrusting.]
