Then his line Alexandrin of love
He put into his hostess’s hand,
Which she willingly straight did remove
To the spot where ’twas properly scan’d.
By swarms of black jumpers, call’d fleas,
All this party were damnably bit,
The priest’s shirt, and his wife’s clean chemise,
The filthy black jumpers b-s—t;
And pending the Parson’s embrace,
Till the critical minute had come,