Yea, I will smite! Grant me but "swerveless wynd,"
And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills;
With "nearness" and "foreverness" I'll bind
A "downflung sheaf" of outslants, paeans and trills;
Pass me th' "quenchless gleam of Titian hair,"
And eke th' "oozing forest's woozy clumps;"
Now will I go upon a metric tear
And smite th' lyre with great resounding thumps.
THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
W. M. THACKERAY.
The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,
He summon'd his physicians
To wait upon him quick:
They stepp'd into their coaches
And brought their best physick.
They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drenched him and they bled him:
They could not cure his ill.
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer;
I'd better make my will."
The monarch's Royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, "your Majesty
Would wish of me to-day?"
"The doctors have belabour'd me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two;
I want to make my will.
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