I'd like, before I go to rest,
To settle Polly's aunt.
I hope they'll take her where the time
Counts not by days and weeks—
The place of which 'tis wrong to rhyme,
And no one ever speaks!
'Tis where the letters that she loves—
The consonants and vow'ls—
Are melted down in patent stoves,
And moulded into howls!