Or this my tale will not go down so well.
In every Country there are customs known,
Which they preserve exclusively their own.[8]
The Portuguese, by some odd whims infected,
Have Cloacina’s temple quite rejected;
How they arrange their Worship, we shall know,
By the disaster that befel our Beau.
Our Hero gaily sporting out a Song,
And cutting angles as he glid along,
Some Damsel, heedlessly, from upper floor,