6. YOLANTE AND MARY. 1. Both these ladies know by instinct How a poet well to treat, For they ask’d me and my genius Luncheon with them once to eat. Ah! the soup was quite delicious, And the wine was old and rare, And the game was really heavenly, And well-larded was the hare. They of poetry kept talking, Till I had enough at last, And I thank’d them for the honour Of this very kind repast. 2. With which shall I become enamour’d, Since both are loveable and mild? The mother’s still a pretty woman, The daughter is a pretty child. The white and inexperienced members Are very pleasant to the view, And yet the genial eyes that answer Our tenderness are charming too. My heart the jackass grey resembles, Who when twixt two hay bundles placed, Eyes them with hesitation, doubting Which of the two the best will taste. 3. The bottles are empty, the breakfast was good, The ladies are gay and impassion’d; They open their corsets in right merry mood, Methinks they with point lace are fashion’d. Their bosoms how fair! Their shoulders how white! My heart is soon trembling all over; They presently jump on the bed with delight, And hide themselves under the cover. The curtains around them before long they pull, And snore away, free from intrusion; I stand in the chamber alone, like a fool, And stare at the bed in confusion. 4. Now that I’m fast growing older, Youth’s by keener fire replaced, And my arm, becoming bolder, Circles many a loving waist. Though at first they were affrighted, Yet they soon were reconcil’d; Modest doubts and wrath united Were o’ercome by flattery mild. Yet the best of all is wanting When I taste my victory; Can it be my youth’s enchanting Bashful weak stupidity? 5. This tricolour’d flow’r now worn is In my breast, to show I’m free, Proving that my heart freeborn is, And a foe to slavery. Sweet Queen Mary, who thy quarters In my heart hast fix’d, pray list: Many of earth’s fairest daughters There have reign’d, then been dismiss’d. 7. EMMA. 1. He stands as firm as a tree stem, In heat and tempest and frost; His toes in the ground are planted, His arms are heavenward toss’d. Thus long is Bagíratha tortured, And Brama his torments would end; He makes the mighty Ganges Down from the heavens descend. But I, my loved one, am vainly Tormented and stricken with woe; From out of thine heavenly eyelids No drops of pity e’er flow. 2. Four-and-twenty hours I still must Wait, to see my bliss complete, As her sidelong glances tell me, Glances, O how dazzling sweet!