From groves and glades come meadow-sweet maids,
None of your saucy minxes or jades;
The poet is there
Without a care.
With no regret, with mild cigarette.
With gay guitar, and whiskey from Leith,
Will he be crowned with the Laureate wreath?
(The Nymph Pantalettina is heard singing.)
Come where my Ashby lies dreaming,
Dreaming for hours after lunch.