And thrust poor Ellen’s face into her hand.
“There—take it, Madam—take it back, I crave,
The face of one—but I must now forget her,
Bestow it on whatever hapless slave
Your art has last enticed into your fetter—
And there are your epistles—there! each letter!
I wish no record of your vow’s infractions,
Send them to South—or Children—you had better—
They will be novelties—rare benefactions!
To shine in Philosophical Transactions!