Brother of Bacchus, later born, Scent to match thy rich perfume Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Breeds no such prodigious poison Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, But no other way they know Or, as men, constrain❜d to part For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been Where, though I, by sour physician, Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Like glances from a neighbor's wife; WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS. If, in the month of dark December, (What maid will not the tale remember?) If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, For me, degenerate, modern wretch, But since he crossed the rapid tide, 'T were hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague BYRON. THE LISBON PACKET. Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo 's off at last; Favorable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house; Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, We're impatient-push from shore. Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reached her, lo! the captain, BYRON. "Hey day! call you that a cabin? Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab inWho the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plenty Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fill.". How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship Lisbon Packet.” Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretched along the decks like logs— Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. On Braganza Help!"—"A couplet ?"—" No, a cup "What's the matter ?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.” Now at length we 're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is,. As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on-as I do now. Great and small things. |