To make a comet of poor Ellen’s moon,
Could furnish forth an image so distraught,
As Ellen, walking Regent Street at noon,
Tail’d—like a fat Cape sheep, or a racoon!
“STICK AS YOU BE—THAT’S THE COMET.”
And yet, whate’er absurdity the brains
May hatch, it ne’er wants wet-nurses to suckle it!
Or dry ones, like a hen, to take the pains
To lead the nudity abroad, and chuckle it;