She whisper'd, “How nice is fried bacon in slices,
And eggs”—What a crisis!—Love egg'd me on—
“My dearest,” said I, “ I wish I may die
If we don't have a fry to-night at the Swan.”
How we giggled when Pantaloon wriggled,
And led a jig with Columbine down;
How we roar'd when Harlequin's sword
Conjur'd Mother Goose into the Clown!
To Saunders's booth I toddled my Ruth,
Saw Master and Miss romp and reel on the rope—