ROMANCE. BOOK I. The sullen mayor who reigns in hell, By mortals Pluto hight, Who thrashes all his subjects well, Both morn and eve, as stories tell, And rules the realms of night, All pleasure lost in cursing once, All joy in flogging, for the nonce. The sedentary life he led Upon his brazen chair Made his hindquarters very red, While pricks, as from a nettle-bed, He felt both here and there:    A burning sun, too, chanced to shine, And boiled down all his blood to brine.     'Tis true he drank full many a draught Of Phlegethon's black flood; By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft, And venesection, fore and aft, They took from him much blood. Full many a clyster was applied, And purging, too, was also tried. His doctor, versed in sciences, With wig beneath his hat, Argued and showed with wondrous ease, From Celsus and Hippocrates, When he in judgment sat,—    "Right worshipful the mayor of hell, The liver's wrong, I see full well."     "He's but a booby," Pluto said,     "With all his trash and pills! A man like me—pray where's his head? A young man yet—his wits have fled! While youth my veins yet fills! Unless electuaries he'll bring, Full in his face my club I'll fling!"     Or right or wrong,—'twas a hard case To weather such a trial;    (Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)    He's straight saluted in the face By every splint and phial. He very wisely made no fuss; This hint he learnt of Cerberus.     "Go! fetch the barber of the skies, Apollo, to me soon!"    An airy courier straightway flies Upon his beast, and onward hies, And skims past poles and moon; As he went off, the clock struck four, At five his charger reached the door. Just then Apollo happened—"Heigh-ho! A sonnet to have made?"    Oh, dear me, no!—upon Miss Io    (Such is the tale I heard from Clio)     The midwife to have played. The boy, as if stamped out of wax, Might Zeus as father fairly tax. He read the letter half asleep,     Then started in dismay:    "The road is long, and hell is deep, Your rocks I know are rough and steep . . . Yet like a king he'll pay!"    He dons his cap of mist and furs, Then through the air the charger spurs. With locks all frizzled a la mode, And ruffles smooth and nice, In gala dress, that brightly glowed    (A gift Aurora had bestowed), With watch-chains of high price, With toes turned out, and chapeau bas, He stood before hell's mighty czar. BOOK II. The grumbler, in his usual tone, Received him with a curse:    "To Pomerania straight begone! Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne! Why, brimstone isn't worse. He'd best be off to 

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