When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was 't the claret? Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a lover's glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet repose, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.