Night after night, with telescope in hand, Supposing that the night was fair and clear, Aloft, on the house-top, he took his stand, Till he obtained to know each twinkling sphere Better, I doubt, than Milton’s “Starry Vere;” Thus, reading thro’ poor Ellen’s fond epistle, He soon espied the flaw--the lapse so sheer That made him raise his hair in such a bristle, And like the Boatswain of the Storm-Ship whistle. “The moon’s at full, love, and I think of thee,”-- “Indeed! I’m very much her humble debtor, But not the moon-calf she would have me be, Zounds! does she fancy that I know no better?” Herewith, at either corner of the letter He gave a most ferocious, rending, pull;-- “O woman! woman! that no vows can fetter, A moon to stay for three weeks at the full! By Jove! a very pretty cock-and-bull! “The moon at full! ’twas very finely reckon’d! Why so she wrote me word upon the first-- The twelfth, and now upon the twenty-second-- Full!--yes--it must be full enough to burst! But let her go--of all vile jilts the worst”-- Here with his thumbs he gave contemptuous snaps, Anon he blubber’d like the child that’s nurs’d, And then he hit the table frightful raps, And stamped till he had broken both his straps. “The moon’s at full--and I am in her thought-- No doubt; I do believe it in my soul!” Here he threw up his head, and gave a snort Like a young horse first harness’d to a pole: “The moon is full--aye, so is this d--d bowl!” And, grinning like the sourest of curmudgeons, Globe--water--fishes--he dash’d down the whole, Strewing the carpet with the gasping gudgeons; Men do the strangest things in such love-dudgeons. “I fill her thoughts--her memory’s vice-gerent? No, no,--some paltry puppy--three weeks old-- And round as Norval’s shield”--thus incoherent His fancies grew as he went on to scold; So stormy waves are into breakers roll’d, Work’d up at last to mere chaotic wroth-- This--that--heads--tails--thoughts jumbled uncontroll’d As onions, turnips, meat, in boiling broth, By turns bob up, and splutter in the froth. [Illustration: HOME’S DOUGLAS.] “Fool that I was to let a baby face-- A full one--like a hunter’s--round and red-- Ass that I am, to give her more a place Within this heart”--and here he struck his head. “’Sdeath are the Almanack-compilers dead? But no--’tis all an artifice--a trick, Some newer face--some dandy under-bred-- Well--be it so--of all the sex I’m sick!” Here Juno wonder’d why she got a kick.