The second volume looked more interesting; there was something in it about Swift. Memory asserting herself, I remembered Temple to be Swift’s first patron, and Stella, I fancy, was Lady Temple’s maid. Happy Stella! At that moment a piece of paper fluttered out of the volume in my hand on to the floor, driving the Dean and his affairs out of my head. I picked it up. An old paper, brown at its edges and foldings, singed by time. On it were some verses—a sonnet. It ran thus:—
“TO DOROTHY OSBORNE,
“Why has no laureate, in golden song,
Wreathed rhythmic honours for her name alone,
Who worships now anear a purer throne?
And chosen, from that lovely, loyal throng
Of wantons ambling devilward along
At beck of God’s Anointed, one to praise,
Of brightest wit, yet pure through works and days,
Constant in love, in every virtue strong.