Better—better, the love of the clown,
Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown,
As if all the fairies had dress'd her!
Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth,
Except that he never will part on earth
With his true love's crooked tester!
CCXVII.
Alas! for the love that's link'd with gold!
Better—better a thousand times told—
More honest, happy, and laudable,