And when they have made the shore through every shock,
'T is odd—or odds—it may turn out a rock.
LXXV.
There is a flower called "Love in Idleness,"[720]
For which see Shakespeare's ever-blooming garden;—
I will not make his great description less,
And beg his British godship's humble pardon,
If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress,
I touch a single leaf where he is warden;—
But, though the flower is different, with the French