Seized the last cast—and Nick’d him in the main!
LINES
TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.
Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempests make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me!
Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,—
A wine more praised that it deserves to be:
Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,