Poems, supressed poems
A man like me--pray where's his head?
A young man yet--his wits have fled!
While youth my veins yet fills!
Unless electuaries he'll bring,
Full in his face my club I'll fling!"
Or right or wrong,--'twas a hard case
To weather such a trial;
(Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)
He's straight saluted in the face
By every splint and phial.
He very wisely made no fuss;
This hint he learnt of Cerberus.
"Go! fetch the barber of the skies,
Apollo, to me soon!"
An airy courier straightway flies
Upon his beast, and onward hies,
And skims past poles and moon;
As he went off, the clock struck four,
At five his charger reached the door.
Just then Apollo happened--"Heigh-ho!
A sonnet to have made?"
Oh, dear me, no!--upon Miss Io
(Such is the tale I heard from Clio)
The midwife t