'Twill lie upon your chest like lead;
Delusion all, that bird so fair;
The sage and onions are a snare.
Dyspepsia!
"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd
A portion of a chicken's breast;
I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,
Dyspepsia!
I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare