As loving mirth, not wisely but too well—
If even in caution’s course I missed my aim,
Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame—
The few preposterous efforts I have made
By this too partial tribute are repaid.
Could my big bosom prop the sinking line,
Then I could speak what feelings now are mine.
But fancy fails, expression dies away;
In feeble murmers I can only say,
Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife: