The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now, it was one fine afternoon,
That quite alone, and dinner done,
When, while Sir Peter plied the glass;
Julia, to make the moments pass,
Ask'd Fashion how she told her story
In Ackermann's Repository.

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Where every month her whims display,
With graceful art, the bright array
That decks the Beauties of the day.
—Thus, as she read, a creaking sound
Call'd her to turn her head around;
When Henry at the window stood,
All pale, as if by grief subdued.
She was surpris'd,—but did not start.—
“You ever have possess'd my heart,—”
She fondly said;—“there, take my hand,
And mind, my friend, what I command.
Speak not a word,—but give good heed
To the short tale I now shall read.
That Dotard there, will never hear,
For drink has stopp'd his list'ning ear.
Nought but the cup his eye can see,
Which it now views with ecstacy.
Again, I tell you, give good heed
To what I am about to read.
Attend, while on the Page I look,
And hear the Wisdom of the Book.”