A party he join'd at Vauxhall; but its gaieties fail'd to delight him:
He did nothing but swallow rack-punch; as to eating, 'twas vain to invite him.
He call'd to his friend: 'Jemmy Johnson, squeeze me a lemon;' and turning to me then,
He said, in a voice that quite shock'd me, and looking as wild as a heathen:
'My spirits I cannot keep up; your pluck'd flowers droop slower than I do;
I'm sure that I make no mistake,—my fate will be that of poor Dido.'
(I declare I am talking pentameters; quite forgetting you're not a Blue Stocking;
But that I am sure you'll excuse.)—Well, isn't the story quite shocking?
Miss Briggs, tho', got quite well at last; to the dolefuls he bade adieu quickly;
Yet a long while he talk'd of her death, though he no longer look'd mournful and sickly.