You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What! forthwith?—tonight?
Reflect? Some skill I have, ’tis true;
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!—
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still there are five lines—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
That makes them eight.—The port’s in sight;