Twill be consigned to the next carrier's care,
I cannot yield it all, be half thy share.
Harry.
Well does the gift thy liquorish palate suit;
I know who robbed the orchard of its fruit[1].
When all were wrapt in sleep, one early morn,
While yet the dewdrop trembled on the thorn,
I marked when o'er the quickset hedge you leapt,
And, sly, beneath the gooseberry bushes crept[2];
Then shook the trees ; a shower of apples fell,—
And where the hoard you kept I know full well;
The mellow gooseberries did themselves produce,
For through thy pocket oozed the viscous juice.
Edward.
I scorn a telltale, or I could declare
How, leave unasked, you sought the neighbouring fair;
Then home by moonlight spurred your jaded steed,
And scarce returned before the hour of bed.
