 | Heliconundrums |  |
A jolly dame King's Better-half, though young:
With a sweet mouth and a sweet saucy tongue.
Well could she meet the wags at any hour.
She came in blooming, fresh as the may-flower,
No one had thought that she could be so quick;
And, leaning on her husband as a stick,
Gave greeting to each unexpected guest,
To each her hand, with proffer of the best.
The flre was not yet out; would they but sit
And wait a while. More silent King; but lit
A spill for all in turn. Not fluent of speech
Was he, but of most things within his reach
Could give account: a fidgety small man,
Restless, although 'twas said he never ran,—
His gait as suited one whose thoughts were wise:
He saw no gain in hurried exercise.
Wrizled his face was, his jaw lean; so thin
His body too, there was no room for sin
If any had suspected him of it.
But they who knew th' inside knew there was wit
With guilelessness beneath that wrinkled crust.
He was a man you might both love and trust:
(Might is a wrong word here, I would say must).
Grave as he was he could accept a joke;
And gravely smiled when Bull the night-hours woke,
As 'bacco-laureate for the present time,
With hasty snatch like this of Moorish rhyme.
With a sweet mouth and a sweet saucy tongue.
Well could she meet the wags at any hour.
She came in blooming, fresh as the may-flower,
No one had thought that she could be so quick;
And, leaning on her husband as a stick,
Gave greeting to each unexpected guest,
To each her hand, with proffer of the best.
The flre was not yet out; would they but sit
And wait a while. More silent King; but lit
A spill for all in turn. Not fluent of speech
74
Could give account: a fidgety small man,
Restless, although 'twas said he never ran,—
His gait as suited one whose thoughts were wise:
He saw no gain in hurried exercise.
Wrizled his face was, his jaw lean; so thin
His body too, there was no room for sin
If any had suspected him of it.
But they who knew th' inside knew there was wit
With guilelessness beneath that wrinkled crust.
He was a man you might both love and trust:
(Might is a wrong word here, I would say must).
Grave as he was he could accept a joke;
And gravely smiled when Bull the night-hours woke,
As 'bacco-laureate for the present time,
With hasty snatch like this of Moorish rhyme.
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