Recaptured Rhymes Being a Batch of Political and Other Fugitives Arrested and Brought to Book. By H. D. Traill |
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 | MIMICRIES |
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 | Recaptured Rhymes |  |
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MIMICRIES
95
THE GOD AND THE DAMOSEL.
The God.
Look in my face, and know me who I am.
I smite and save; I bless, and, lo, I damn.
Incline thine head, thy browless brow incline;
I touch thee, and I tap thee, and proclaim,
For ever and for ever thou art mine!
I smite and save; I bless, and, lo, I damn.
Incline thine head, thy browless brow incline;
I touch thee, and I tap thee, and proclaim,
For ever and for ever thou art mine!
O long as grief, and leaner than desire!
O sweet retreating breasts and amorous-kissing knees!
O grace and goodliness of strait attire!
A robe of them who sport in summer seas.
O sweet retreating breasts and amorous-kissing knees!
O grace and goodliness of strait attire!
A robe of them who sport in summer seas.
96
By these, and by the eyelids of thine eyes,
Ringed round with darkness, swollen weeper-wise,
By these I know thee; these are for a sign,
Surer, yea, even than thy most splendid size
Of spreaden hands: I know thee, thou art mine.
Ringed round with darkness, swollen weeper-wise,
By these I know thee; these are for a sign,
Surer, yea, even than thy most splendid size
Of spreaden hands: I know thee, thou art mine.
The Damosel.
Master and lord, I know thee who thou art;
Lo, and with homage of the stricken heart,
I hail thee, I adore thee, and obtest:
I am thine own, I know no better part;
Do with me, master as thee seemeth best.
Lo, and with homage of the stricken heart,
I hail thee, I adore thee, and obtest:
I am thine own, I know no better part;
Do with me, master as thee seemeth best.
O loose as thought and bodiless as a dream!
O globular grand eyes, a bane of maidenhood!
O miracle of tunic-folds that seem
Self-balanced, firm, a glory of carven wood.
O globular grand eyes, a bane of maidenhood!
O miracle of tunic-folds that seem
Self-balanced, firm, a glory of carven wood.
By these, and by the crown thy temples wear,
Holy, a cauline flower of wondrous hair;
By thy red mouth, a bow without a chord,
And shaftless, yea, but deadly, O most fair.
I knew thee, and I know thee for my lord!
Holy, a cauline flower of wondrous hair;
By thy red mouth, a bow without a chord,
97
I knew thee, and I know thee for my lord!
The God.
Ay, now the flicker of a nauseate smile
Bestirs thy cheek and wan lips imbecile;
Thy pale plucked blossom droops; its day is done.
The Damosel.
Nay, let me deck my bosom therewithal,
It were ill-ominous to let it fall,
The faithful mistress of Hyperion Sun.
The God.
Stoop thou—what ails thee, child, to shudder?—stoop and brush
Hair with tow-towzled hair, that for a space
I breathe my godhead through thy thirsting veins, and flush
The soft submalar hollows of thy face,
98
Of eager ecstasy with fair flat feet thou crush
The beetle, Virtue, in the lowly place.
The Damosel.
Ah, master and lord, I feel it; the wind of thy fierce delight,
Hell-hot as the blast from the furnace, sea-cold as a gust of the sea.
O deaf blind Love, that art deaf as a poker and blind as the night!
O my flushed faint cheeks and my chin! O mine eye and the elbow of me!
Hell-hot as the blast from the furnace, sea-cold as a gust of the sea.
O deaf blind Love, that art deaf as a poker and blind as the night!
O my flushed faint cheeks and my chin! O mine eye and the elbow of me!
I bow to thy might, O my lord, to the keen-blown breath of thy lips,
With a loathing of love that longs, and a longing of love that loathes,
With shiver of angular shoulders, and shake of invisible hips,
As boweth the light slight stake in the torture of wind-whirled clothes!
With a loathing of love that longs, and a longing of love that loathes,
99
As boweth the light slight stake in the torture of wind-whirled clothes!
Thou hast rent me enough, O Divine! . . . and behold, thou stayest thine hand,
And leavest me crushed as a reed, that I wot not whether I tread
Upon Earth, our holy old mother, with feet downpressing, or stand
Inverse in a fearless new fashion, uplift on my passionate head!
And leavest me crushed as a reed, that I wot not whether I tread
Upon Earth, our holy old mother, with feet downpressing, or stand
Inverse in a fearless new fashion, uplift on my passionate head!
100
FROM “THE PUSS AND THE BOOTS.”
Put case I circumvent and kill him: good.
Good riddance—wipes at least from book o' th' world
One ugly admiration-note-like blot—
Gives honesty more elbow-room by just
The three dimensions of one wicked knave.
But then slips in the plaguy After-voice.
“Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither away
So fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judge
And ruler over men to spare or slay?
A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwith
Credentials of your mission to erase
The ink-spots of mankind—t' abolish ill
For being what it is, is bound to be,
Its nature being so—cut wizards off
In flower of their necromantic lives
For being wizards, when 'tis plain enough
That they have no more wrought their wizardship
Than cats their cathood.” Thus the plaguy Voice,
Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thus
I turn the enemy's flank: “Meseems, my friend,
Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh,
And catches what you would not. Every mouse
Trapped i' the larder by the kitchen wench
Might reason so—but scarcely with effect.
Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thief
To plead, ‘The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I.
Am I to blame that in the parcelling-out
Of my ingredients the Great Chemist set
Just so much here, there so much, and no more
(Since 'tis but question, after all is said,
Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feels
And that which guides), so much proclivity
To nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lust
Of bacon-scraps, such tendency to think
Old Stilton-rind the noblest thing on earth?
Then the per contra—so much power to choose
The right and shun the wrong; so much of force
Of uncorrupted will to stoutly bar
The sensory inlets of the murine soul,
And, when by night the floating rare-bit fume
Lures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fast
With more than Odusseian sailor-wax:
Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trap
To keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comes
The hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scale
Sinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam,
The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as much
A thing of law with motives as with plums),
And I, forsooth, must die simply because
Dame Nature, having chosen so to load
The dishes, did not choose suspend for me
The gravitation of the moral world.’
How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus
(If given, as scullions use, to logic-fence
And keen retorsion of dilemmata
In speeches of a hundred lines or so):
‘Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear.
'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less;
You she by forces past your own control
Made a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of me
By forces as resistless and her own
She made a mouse-killer. Thus, either plays
A rôle in no wise chosen of himself,
But takes what part the great Stage Manager
Cast him for, when the play was set afoot.
Remains we act ours—without private spite,
But still with spirit and fidelity,
As fits good actors: you I blame no whit
For nibbling cheese—simply I throw you down
Unblamed—nay, even morally assoiled,
To pussy there: blame thou not me for that.’
Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit,
Something inapt at ethics—why, then thus:
‘Enough of prating, little thief! This talk
Of “fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,”
Is hugely out of place! What next indeed,
If all the casuistry of the schools
Be prayed in aid by every pilfering mouse
That's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend,
Thus I resolve the problem. We prefer
To keep our cheeses for our own behoof,
And eat them with our proper jaws; and so,
Having command of mouse-traps, we will catch
Whatever mice we can, and promptly kill
Whatever mice we catch. Entendez-vous?
Ay, and we will, though all the mice on earth
Pass indignation votes, obtest the faith
Of gods and men, and make the welkin ring
With world-resounding dissonance of squeak!’”
Good riddance—wipes at least from book o' th' world
One ugly admiration-note-like blot—
Gives honesty more elbow-room by just
The three dimensions of one wicked knave.
But then slips in the plaguy After-voice.
“Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither away
So fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judge
And ruler over men to spare or slay?
A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwith
Credentials of your mission to erase
The ink-spots of mankind—t' abolish ill
For being what it is, is bound to be,
Its nature being so—cut wizards off
101
For being wizards, when 'tis plain enough
That they have no more wrought their wizardship
Than cats their cathood.” Thus the plaguy Voice,
Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thus
I turn the enemy's flank: “Meseems, my friend,
Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh,
And catches what you would not. Every mouse
Trapped i' the larder by the kitchen wench
Might reason so—but scarcely with effect.
Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thief
To plead, ‘The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I.
Am I to blame that in the parcelling-out
Of my ingredients the Great Chemist set
Just so much here, there so much, and no more
(Since 'tis but question, after all is said,
Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feels
And that which guides), so much proclivity
To nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lust
Of bacon-scraps, such tendency to think
102
Then the per contra—so much power to choose
The right and shun the wrong; so much of force
Of uncorrupted will to stoutly bar
The sensory inlets of the murine soul,
And, when by night the floating rare-bit fume
Lures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fast
With more than Odusseian sailor-wax:
Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trap
To keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comes
The hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scale
Sinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam,
The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as much
A thing of law with motives as with plums),
And I, forsooth, must die simply because
Dame Nature, having chosen so to load
The dishes, did not choose suspend for me
The gravitation of the moral world.’
How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus
(If given, as scullions use, to logic-fence
103
In speeches of a hundred lines or so):
‘Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear.
'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less;
You she by forces past your own control
Made a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of me
By forces as resistless and her own
She made a mouse-killer. Thus, either plays
A rôle in no wise chosen of himself,
But takes what part the great Stage Manager
Cast him for, when the play was set afoot.
Remains we act ours—without private spite,
But still with spirit and fidelity,
As fits good actors: you I blame no whit
For nibbling cheese—simply I throw you down
Unblamed—nay, even morally assoiled,
To pussy there: blame thou not me for that.’
Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit,
Something inapt at ethics—why, then thus:
‘Enough of prating, little thief! This talk
104
Is hugely out of place! What next indeed,
If all the casuistry of the schools
Be prayed in aid by every pilfering mouse
That's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend,
Thus I resolve the problem. We prefer
To keep our cheeses for our own behoof,
And eat them with our proper jaws; and so,
Having command of mouse-traps, we will catch
Whatever mice we can, and promptly kill
Whatever mice we catch. Entendez-vous?
Ay, and we will, though all the mice on earth
Pass indignation votes, obtest the faith
Of gods and men, and make the welkin ring
With world-resounding dissonance of squeak!’”
But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready then
My nerves—and talons—for the trial of strength!
A stout heart, feline cunning, and—who knows?
My nerves—and talons—for the trial of strength!
A stout heart, feline cunning, and—who knows?
105
THE MODERN POET'S SONG.
Where hast thou been since battlemented Troy
Rose like a dream to thy loud-stricken lyre?
Why dost thou walk the common earth no more?
Nor lead on high Parnass the Muses' choir,
As when thy Hellas rang from shore to shore
With harpings loud, and hymns of holy joy?
Well may we for thy gracious presence long:
The fashion of the day is classic myth,
And he must liberally deal therewith
Who fain would sing the modern poet's song.
Rose like a dream to thy loud-stricken lyre?
Why dost thou walk the common earth no more?
Nor lead on high Parnass the Muses' choir,
As when thy Hellas rang from shore to shore
With harpings loud, and hymns of holy joy?
Well may we for thy gracious presence long:
The fashion of the day is classic myth,
And he must liberally deal therewith
Who fain would sing the modern poet's song.
Shake from thy brow the hyacinthine locks
That hide its ivory splendours! Let thine eyes
Flash forth as blue-white lightnings lubricate,
Spread sudden day through purple midnight skies,
Or scarlet shafts of dawn illuminate
The grey and umber of the sleeping rocks!
O colours and O shades of every hue,
Plain or in combination, faint or strong,
Red, green, and yellow, black and white and blue,
How ye assist the modern poet's song!
That hide its ivory splendours! Let thine eyes
Flash forth as blue-white lightnings lubricate,
106
Or scarlet shafts of dawn illuminate
The grey and umber of the sleeping rocks!
O colours and O shades of every hue,
Plain or in combination, faint or strong,
Red, green, and yellow, black and white and blue,
How ye assist the modern poet's song!
Far-darting Phoibos, lofty Loxias
(Since thou the glad Greek greeting well mayst hear
That hailed thee erst in Delos the divine),
If our late lays have leave to reach thine ear,
Meek, myrtle-bearing, give us grace to pass
Through the white worshippers towards thy shrine.
O apt alliteration! how a throng
Of self-repeating vowels and consonants,
How lines of labials, strings of sibilants,
Make music in the modern poet's song!
(Since thou the glad Greek greeting well mayst hear
That hailed thee erst in Delos the divine),
If our late lays have leave to reach thine ear,
Meek, myrtle-bearing, give us grace to pass
Through the white worshippers towards thy shrine.
O apt alliteration! how a throng
Of self-repeating vowels and consonants,
How lines of labials, strings of sibilants,
Make music in the modern poet's song!
107
I will compare thee to a fowler wight,
Snaring the soul with magic-woven words
Of wondrous music and divinest art;
Or haply I may liken, heard aright,
Thy wingèd strains themselves to captured birds,
Fast in the meshes of the human heart.
For men and things resemble what we please,
Such arbitrary powers to bards belong;
And, in default of genuine similes,
Conceits will serve the modern poet's song.
Snaring the soul with magic-woven words
Of wondrous music and divinest art;
Or haply I may liken, heard aright,
Thy wingèd strains themselves to captured birds,
Fast in the meshes of the human heart.
For men and things resemble what we please,
Such arbitrary powers to bards belong;
And, in default of genuine similes,
Conceits will serve the modern poet's song.
Come thou, our lord; the heart within us dies,
And, faint as in a breathless land and bare,
We take no profit of our piteous day.
Give us to look upon thee, O most fair;
Appear, O sweet desire of all men's eyes,
Ere this dread cup of life shall pass away!
For vague appeals which we interpret not,
And moody murmurs at unstated wrong,
And aspirations for we say not what,
Largely compose the modern poet's song.
And, faint as in a breathless land and bare,
We take no profit of our piteous day.
Give us to look upon thee, O most fair;
Appear, O sweet desire of all men's eyes,
Ere this dread cup of life shall pass away!
For vague appeals which we interpret not,
And moody murmurs at unstated wrong,
And aspirations for we say not what,
Largely compose the modern poet's song.
108
Come thou, and I my stanzas will illume
With all the hues that in the rainbow meet,
Alliterate all letters that there are;
Outdo all rivals in mysterious gloom,
Fetch metaphors like magi from afar,
Lit by no star of meaning, to thy feet.
For these and similar poetic tricks
Are highly prized our master's school among.
O Swinburne! and O water! how ye mix,
To constitute the modern poet's song!
With all the hues that in the rainbow meet,
Alliterate all letters that there are;
Outdo all rivals in mysterious gloom,
Fetch metaphors like magi from afar,
Lit by no star of meaning, to thy feet.
For these and similar poetic tricks
Are highly prized our master's school among.
O Swinburne! and O water! how ye mix,
To constitute the modern poet's song!
109
AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI.
“Why do you wear your hair like a man,
Sister Helen?
This week is the third since you began.”
“I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,
Little brother.
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)”
Sister Helen?
This week is the third since you began.”
“I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,
Little brother.
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)”
“But why does your figure appear so lean,
Sister Helen?
And why do you dress in sage, sage green?”
“Children should never be heard, if seen,
Little brother?
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)”
Sister Helen?
And why do you dress in sage, sage green?”
“Children should never be heard, if seen,
Little brother?
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)”
110
“But why is your face so yellowy white,
Sister Helen?
And why are your skirts so funnily tight?”
“Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,
Little brother?
(O Mother Carey, mother!
How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)”
Sister Helen?
And why are your skirts so funnily tight?”
“Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,
Little brother?
(O Mother Carey, mother!
How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)”
“And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,
Sister Helen?
And why do you call her again and again?”
“You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,
Little brother.
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What work is toward in the startled heaven?)”
Sister Helen?
And why do you call her again and again?”
“You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,
Little brother.
(O Mother Carey, mother!
What work is toward in the startled heaven?)”
“And what's a refrain? What a curious word,
Sister Helen!
Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?”
“Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,
Little brother.
(O Mother Carey, mother!
Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)”
(A big brother speaketh:)
Sister Helen!
Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?”
“Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,
111
(O Mother Carey, mother!
Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)”
“The refrain you've studied a meaning had,
Sister Helen!
It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.
But refrains have become a ridiculous ‘fad’
Little brother.
And Mother Carey, mother,
Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.
Sister Helen!
It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.
But refrains have become a ridiculous ‘fad’
Little brother.
And Mother Carey, mother,
Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.
“But the finical fashion has had its day,
Sister Helen.
And let's try in the style of a different lay
To bid it adieu in poetical way,
Little brother.
So, Mother Carey, mother!
Collect your chickens and go to—heaven.”
Sister Helen.
And let's try in the style of a different lay
To bid it adieu in poetical way,
Little brother.
So, Mother Carey, mother!
Collect your chickens and go to—heaven.”
112
“Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was;
I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,
And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth
Slowly, but sure awakening it has,
The common-sense of man; and I, alas!
The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,
Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—
A too transparent artifice to pass.
I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,
And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth
Slowly, but sure awakening it has,
The common-sense of man; and I, alas!
The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,
Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—
A too transparent artifice to pass.
“What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart
Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise
Assail judicious ears not otherwise;
And yet no critics praise the urchin's ‘art,’
Who to the wretched creature's caudal part
Its föolish empty-jingling ‘burden’ ties.”
Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise
Assail judicious ears not otherwise;
And yet no critics praise the urchin's ‘art,’
Who to the wretched creature's caudal part
Its föolish empty-jingling ‘burden’ ties.”
113
A DRAWING-ROOM BALLAD.
Can you recall an ode to June
Or lines to any river
In which you do not meet the “moon,”
And see “the moonbeams quiver”?
I've heard such songs to many a tune,
But never yet—no niver—
Have I escaped that rhyme to “June”
Or missed that rhyme to “river.”
Or lines to any river
In which you do not meet the “moon,”
And see “the moonbeams quiver”?
I've heard such songs to many a tune,
But never yet—no niver—
Have I escaped that rhyme to “June”
Or missed that rhyme to “river.”
At times the bard from his refrain
A moment's respite snatches,
The while his over-cudgelled brain
At some new jingle catches;
Yet long from the unlucky moon
Himself he cannot sever,
But grasps once more that rhyme to “June,”
And seeks a rhyme to “river.”
A moment's respite snatches,
The while his over-cudgelled brain
At some new jingle catches;
114
Himself he cannot sever,
But grasps once more that rhyme to “June,”
And seeks a rhyme to “river.”
Then let not indolence be blamed
On him whose verses show it
By shunning “burdens” (rightly named
For reader and for poet);
For rhymes must fail him late or soon,
Nor can he deal for ever
In words whose sound resembles “June,”
And assonants of “river.”
On him whose verses show it
By shunning “burdens” (rightly named
For reader and for poet);
For rhymes must fail him late or soon,
Nor can he deal for ever
In words whose sound resembles “June,”
And assonants of “river.”
When “loon”'s been used, and “shoon” and “spoon,”
And “stīver” sounded “stĭver,”
Think of a bard reduced to “'coon,”
And left alone with “liver”!
Ah, then, how blessèd were the boon!
How doubly blest the giver,
Who gave him one rhyme more for “June,”
And one more rhyme for “river”!
And “stīver” sounded “stĭver,”
Think of a bard reduced to “'coon,”
And left alone with “liver”!
115
How doubly blest the giver,
Who gave him one rhyme more for “June,”
And one more rhyme for “river”!
116
VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.
There, pay it, James! 'tis cheaply earned;
My conscience! how one's cabman charges!
But never mind, so I'm returned
Safe to my native street of Clarges.
I've just an hour for one cigar
(What style these Reinas have, and what ash!)
One hour to watch the evening star
With just one Curacao-and-potash.
My conscience! how one's cabman charges!
But never mind, so I'm returned
Safe to my native street of Clarges.
I've just an hour for one cigar
(What style these Reinas have, and what ash!)
One hour to watch the evening star
With just one Curacao-and-potash.
Ah me! that face beneath the leaves
And blossoms of its piquant bonnet!
Who would have thought that forty thieves
Of years had laid their fingers on it!
Could you have managed to enchant
At Lord's to-day old lovers simple,
Had Robber Time not played gallant,
And spared you every youthful dimple!
And blossoms of its piquant bonnet!
Who would have thought that forty thieves
Of years had laid their fingers on it!
117
At Lord's to-day old lovers simple,
Had Robber Time not played gallant,
And spared you every youthful dimple!
That Robber bold, like courtier Claude,
Who danced the gay coranto jesting,
By your bright beauty charmed and awed,
Has bowed and passed you unmolesting.
No feet of many-wintered crows
Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle;
Your sunny hair has thawed the snows
That other heads with silver sprinkle.
Who danced the gay coranto jesting,
By your bright beauty charmed and awed,
Has bowed and passed you unmolesting.
No feet of many-wintered crows
Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle;
Your sunny hair has thawed the snows
That other heads with silver sprinkle.
I wonder if that pair of gloves
I won of you you'll ever pay me!
I wonder if our early loves
Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy?
I wonder if our childish tiff
Now seems to you, like me, a blunder!
I wonder if you wonder if
I ever wonder if you wonder
I won of you you'll ever pay me!
I wonder if our early loves
Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy?
118
Now seems to you, like me, a blunder!
I wonder if you wonder if
I ever wonder if you wonder
I wonder if you'd think it bliss
Once more to be the fashion's leader!
I wonder if the trick of this
Escapes the unsuspecting reader!
And as for him who does or can
Delight in it, I wonder whether
He knows that almost any man
Could reel it off by yards together!
Once more to be the fashion's leader!
I wonder if the trick of this
Escapes the unsuspecting reader!
And as for him who does or can
Delight in it, I wonder whether
He knows that almost any man
Could reel it off by yards together!
I wonder if— What's that? A knock?
Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!
How time has flown! It's eight o'clock,
And here's my fellow come to dress me.
Be quick, or I shall be the guest
Whom Lady Mary never pardons;
I trust you, James, to do your best
To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.
Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!
How time has flown! It's eight o'clock,
And here's my fellow come to dress me.
119
Whom Lady Mary never pardons;
I trust you, James, to do your best
To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.
| Recaptured Rhymes | |