Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak,
And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak,
But a part of the pen I clutch.
Oh, but to "DELE" work!
To "transpose" toil for rest!
To "make up" life's remaining years
On smiling Nature's breast!
A "space" of time to join the "chase,"
Some "quoins" to see me through!
A good "fat take" of these I want,