The white, takes wing first, I 'll confess when thrashed;
Not, if the blue does,"—so I said to myself
Last week, lest you should take me by surprise:
Off flapped the white,—and I 'm confessing, sir!
Perhaps 't is Providence's whim and way
With only me, i' the world: how can you tell?
"Because unlikely!" Was it likelier, now,
That this our one out of all worlds beside,
The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be just
Precisely chosen to make Adam for,