Is a question that plagues not me, as I laze,
And on their graceful movement gaze.
'Tis the happiest hour of the sultry year:
The swift oars twinkle; I smoke and steer.
Row, beauties, row! 'Tis uncommon hot:
I can row stroke, but I'd rather not.
As we meet the sunset's afterglow,
Two absolute angels seem to row;
Wingless they are, so of flight no fear—
Home to dinner I mean to steer.