When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won’t he?—pay thee with a lover’s glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. [119a]
Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! [119b]
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!
Cursed be the Bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!