On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
I, who am wont my thoughts to utter
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!
O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.