  O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship What liberty is mine—what sweet release From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace! Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret Of all distress is stilled—no syllable Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet My teeming lids save those that leap to tell Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet |
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