Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures,
Are fiddlededee!
Punch. May 22, 1880.
——:o:——
Swinburnism.
I trow, wild friends, God’s soul wots well by rote
My sweet soft strains and lovely lays of love,
And all the white ways of her sweet sharp throat,
Which, not right yet, I have waxed weary of.
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