Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits,
(Much like our Boswell's), we will take a glance
At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance
His woven periods into careless rhyme;
O, little faery Pegasus! rear—prance—
Trot round the quarto—ordinary time!
March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime !
LXXII.
Well, let us see,—tenth book and chapter nine,—
Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:—
'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weatner fine,
Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry
A flight of starlings making rapidly
Tow'rds Thibet. Mem.:—birds fly in the night;
From twelve to half-past—wings not fit to fly
For a thick fog—the Princess sulky quite:
Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite.
LXXIII.
Five minutes before one—brought down a moth
With my new double-barrel—stew'd the thighs,
And made a very tolerable broth—
Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise,
Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice:
Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a pun,
She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies
About this time,—a sad old figure of fun;
Bad omen—this new match can't be a happy one.
