Dear Cottle, d'ye see, In writing to thee, I do it in rhyme, That I may save time, Determin'd to say, Without any delay, Whatever comes first, Whether best or worst. Alack for me! When I was at sea, For I lay like a log, As sick as a dog, And whoever this readeth, Will pity poor Edith: Indeed it was shocking, The vessel fast rocking, The timbers all creaking, And when we were speaking, It was to deplore That we were not on shore, And to vow we would never go voyaging more. The fear of our fighting, Did put her a fright in, And I had alarms For my legs and my arms. When the matches were smoking, I thought 'twas no joking, And though honour and glory And fame were before me, 'Twas a great satisfaction, That we had not an action, And I felt somewhat bolder, When I knew that my head might remain on my shoulder. But O! 'twas a pleasure, Exceeding all measure, On the deck to stand, And look at the land; And when I got there, I vow and declare, The pleasure was even Like getting to heaven! I could eat and drink, As you may think; I could sleep at ease, Except for the fleas, But still the sea-feeling,-- The drunken reeling, Did not go away For more than a day: Like a cradle, the bed Seemed to rock my head, And the room and the town, Went up and down. My Edith here, Thinks all things queer, And some things she likes well; But then the street She thinks not neat, And does not like the smell. Nor do the fleas Her fancy please Although the fleas like her; They at first vie w Fell merrily too, For they made no demur. But, O, the sight! The great delight! From this my window, west! This view so fine, This scene divine! The joy that I love best! The Tagus here, So broad and clear, Blue, in the clear blue noon-- And it lies light, All silver white, Under the silver moon! Adieu, adieu, Farewell to you, Farewell, my friend so dear, Write when you may, I need not say, How gladly we shall hear. I leave off rhyme, And so next time, Prose writing you shall see; But in rhyme or prose, Dear Joseph knows The same old friend in me, Robert Southey." * * * * * [Illustration: Portrait of Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laurate.] * * * * * "Portugal, Cintra, July, 1800. My dear Cottle,