Through the bonds she got off bankrupt beggar is she,
A world’s warning, a scoff, and a show!”
The maniac looked fierce, but her wrath died away
To dead calm, that strait-waistcoat displayed,
And she crouched and she whined, “’Pon my honour I’ll pay—
And get credit—who knows?—to run more ticks some day,
When my ‘passives’ once ‘actives’ are made.
“Then come to my arms—be Alfonso the Brave—
And I’ll be thy fair Imogine.”
Here the maniac looked wild, and the keeper looked grave,