And you itch, like a boy, to confess:
When you know a bit more of the arts of the age
You will probably talk a bit less.
For your dull little vices we don't care a fig,
It is _this_ that we deeply deplore;
You were cast for a common or usual pig,
But you play the invincible bore.

VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS and a Herrickose vein.
Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,
Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows
That rare arrangement of her clothes!
So shod as when the Huntress Maid
With thumping buskin bruised...
...berry-cock.
Withal she hath a loaded gun,
Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
Do make a fair diversión.
For very awe, if so she shoots,
My hair upriseth from the roots,
And lo! I tremble in my boots!

IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE.
My heart is like a driver-club,
That heaves the pellet hard and straight,
That carries every let and rub,
The whole performance really great;
My heart is like a bulger-head,
That whiffles on the wily tee,
Because my love has kindly said
She'll halve the round of life with me.
My heart is also like a cleek,
Resembling most the mashie sort,
That spanks the object, so to speak,
Across the sandy bar to port;
And hers is like a putting-green,
The haven...
...re's keen
To halve the round of life with me.
Raise me a bunker, if you can,

 Prev. P 22/80 next