To that swollen, heavy-laden thing poor devils call a “score”—
To be settled—nevermore.
And the windy, wild, uncertain flapping of my window curtain
Filled me, thrilled me with fantastic fancies never known before;
So that, now, to check the cheating of my mind I stood repeating,
“’Tis that Jones’s dog entreating entrance at my chamber-door—
Bibulous Jones’s pug entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—
Only that, and nothing more.”
Presently the sound grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer,
“Tyke,” said I, “low mongrel, truly this intrusion is a bore;