FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY.

Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink;

Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink!

See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat,

And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.

Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess

That the Tenth is the TĒLE-EPHĒMERA, Pride of the PRESS!

And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî

Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G.

From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees

My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees.

“Am I drunk?” Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish!

‘ Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish.

As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can,

Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan!

Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink,

Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink.

On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee,

And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee!

Low laid at thy feet — little feet — in the dust like a worm,

Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm.

By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue!

And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew!

Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin!

Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin!