To a Memorial Mutton-Chop.

BY whose quaint, queer, and crafty devising

Art thou so coyly and cunningly curled?

Whence are the odors, wondrous, arising.

That into my nose are swiftly whirled?

Shall I force the flesh away from its hiding?

Shall I dive to thy depths and thy soul explore?

Ah no! Lest straightly I'd be deciding

Never to touch or look at thee more.

Render the rites in the dances mazy,

Thank the gods for their gift and say:

"If it stay here longer I shall go crazy;

Take it, William, take it away!"