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?
* * * *
Better thou wert dead before me—better, better, that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed.