Shakespeare.
Some fond poets sing of their lady-love’s eyes,
Or lovers who sail the seas over;
But poet-like I shall gaze up at the skies,
And muse of my little dog Rover.
The canine I sing, to disease is a prey;
The mange, the distemper, and flea,
Have all had their turn, and have worn him away;
His shadow you scarcely can see.
From earliest light, until late in the night,