A Century of Parody and Imitation - Unknown

And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,

For if I've any sense of decorum,

It never was meant to be neat.

We met—'twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—

I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;

He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter'd,

I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter'd.

I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall'd their brightness;