"Antonio," said he, "Now listen to me: I've just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree, All matters considered, is no bad design, And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine. "In the first place, you know all the money I've got, Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot, And in making those loans you have made a bad shot; Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows, --Shoot another the same way--I'll watch well its track, And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back!-- So list to my plan, And do what you can To attend to and second it, that's a good man! "There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat Was giving last season, we all used to stare at. Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine, Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine, Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks, It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions' and 'Docks', Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks, French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian, In English Exchequer-bills full half a million, Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle. Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways, And more speculations I need not detail, ways Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em, Contribute a deal to improving one's income; In short, she's a Mint! --Now I say, deuce is in't If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint, And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print At the time that I told you of, know from a squint. In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony, Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan--I Am sure of my game--though, of course, there are brutes, Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts, Yet Portia--she's named from that daughter of Cato's-- Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes, And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson--cut them all out-- Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her! --Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed, For her Three-and-a-half per Cents--New and Reduced!