But go not to the spot, I pray;
O do not, do not, some fine day.
Order, like STERNE, your travelling breeches;—
All's lost, if once upon your way,
The passport of Lord ——
Is death to Fancy—like his speeches.
If you would save some dreams of youth
From the torpedo touch of Truth,
Go not to VENICE—do not blight
Your early fancies with the sight