CCXII.

And then—­and much it help’d his chance—­
He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance,
Perform charades, and Proverbs of France—­
  Act the tender, and do the cruel;
For amongst his other killing parts,
He had broken a brace of female hearts,
  And murder’d three men in duel!

CCXIII.

Savage at heart, and false of tongue,
Subtle with age, and smooth to the young,
  Like a snake in his coiling and curling—­
Such was the Count—­to give him a niche—­
Who came to court that Heiress rich,
And knelt at her foot—­one needn’t say which—­
  Besieging her castle of Stirling.

CCXIV.

With pray’rs and vows he open’d his trench,
And plied her with English, Spanish, and French
  In phrases the most sentimental: 
And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch,
With now and then an Italian touch,
Till she yielded, without resisting much,
  To homage so continental.

CCXV.

And then—­the sordid bargain to close—­
With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose,
And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes,
And his beard and whiskers as black as those,
  The lady’s consent he requited—­
And instead of the lock that lovers beg,
The Count received from Miss Kilmansegg
A model, in small, of her Precious Leg—­
  And so the couple were plighted!

CCXVI.

But, oh! the love that gold must crown! 
Better—­better, the love of the clown,
Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown,
  As if all the fairies had dress’d her! 
Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth,
Except that he never will part on earth
  With his true love’s crooked tester!

CCXVII.

Alas! for the love that’s link’d with gold! 
Better—­better a thousand times told—­
  More honest, happy, and laudable,
The downright loving of pretty Cis,
Who wipes her lips, though there’s nothing amiss,
And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss,
  In which her heart is audible!

CCXVIII.

Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright,
Who loves—­as she labors—­with all her might,
  And without any sordid leaven! 
Who blushes as red as haws and hips,
Down to her very finger-tips,
For Roger’s blue ribbons—­to her, like strips
  Cut out of the azure of Heaven!

HER MARRIAGE.

CCXIX.

’Twas morn—­a most auspicious one! 
From the Golden East, the Golden Sun
Came forth his glorious race to run,
  Through clouds of most splendid tinges;
Clouds that lately slept in shade,
    But now seem’d made
    Of gold brocade,
  With magnificent golden fringes.