(Urns I detest, irrelevant pomposities)—
The world beyond the window-blinds, as far
As I can thrust it—this defines what “cosset” is—
What woe that rhyme such scene of bliss must mar!
But rhyme, alas! is one of my atrocities;
In common with those bards who have the scratch
Of writing, and are all right with Catnach.
“How Nancy Sniggles was the village pride,—
How Will, her sweetheart, went to be a sailor;
How much at parting Nancy Sniggles cried,—