He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—
And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,
Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:
Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copy
Of his own daughter Mors,[8] had made assault
On the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,
But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.
Certainly, nothing operates much quicker
Against two persons’ secret dialogues,
Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,