Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/546

502 Or give—like her—caresses to a score;

Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go

The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?

Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.

Terpsichore forgive!—at every Ball

My wife now waltzes—and my daughters shall;

My son—(or stop—'tis needless to inquire—

These little accidents should ne'er transpire;

Some ages hence our genealogic tree

Will wear as green a bough for him as me)—

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends

Grandsons for me—in heirs to all his friends.

END OF VOL. I.