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THE WALTZ.
Or give—like her—caresses to a score;
Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore forgive!—at every Ball250
My wife now waltzes—and my daughters shall;
My son—(or stop—'tis needless to inquire—
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree[1]
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)—
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends
Grandsons for me—in heirs to all his friends.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND RECCLES.
- ↑
Some generations hence our Pedigree
Will never look the worse for him or me.—[MS. erased.]
