  On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!— I with a goose-quill must rehearse Partly in jest, and partly serious, Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse. I, who am wont my thoughts to utter Upon thy rosy lips so fair With kisses that like bright flames splutter Up from my bosom’s inmost lair! O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet, E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times Until (and other minstrels know it) I in her album scrawl some rhymes. |
|
