The

Love Elegies

of

Abel Shufflebottom.

ELEGE 1:

The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's pocket-handkerchief.

'Tis mine! what accents can my joy déclare ?
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the tempting corner hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF is MINE.

When first with filching fingers I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous thro' every vein,
And when the finish'd deed removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What tho' the eighth commandment rose to mind,
It only served a nicment's qualm to move,
For thefts like this it could not be design'd,

The eighth commandment WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here when she took the macaroons from me,

She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet; Dear napkin yes she wiped her lips in thee! Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw
That made my Love so delicately sneeze,
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,
And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,

And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.