Jack Ketch himself from Cupid's noose By no means feels secure. The butcher—heretofore so hard— Feels in his heart a skewer. The miser (harder far than both) Now opens with avidity His chest—his heart, I meant to say:— For _Cupid_, cuts _Cupidity_. The beasts are just in the same plight; The horse, the ass, the steer: The lion's found his "own true love;" The stag has got his _deer_. The little mouse, tho' small he be, Courts after his own fashion: The very _mite's_ obliged to own That love's a _mite-y_ passion. The very birds are caught: the crow In amorous despondence, His carrion leaves, to _carry on_ A tender correspondence. And while Miss Grace invites her beau With her at eve to wander, The goose, whose quill she gently wields, Is gone to meet her gander. Since birds and beasts don't die for love, T'were sillier than a goose, Because I can't tie Hymen's _knot_, To dangle in a _noose_. Fresh bonds I'll seek, tho' I should roam From England to Owhyee: And for my death (fixed for to-day) Postpone it _sine die_.