Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell!—be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;
But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.
I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.)
I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling