Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 7.djvu/84

50 Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France!

'T is said she certainly was married

To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,

No—not miscarried, I opine,—

But brought to bed at forty-nine.

Some say she died a Papist; some

Are of opinion that's a Hum;

I don't know that—the fellows Schlegel,

Are very likely to inveigle

A dying person in compunction

To try th' extremity of Unction.

But peace be with her! for a woman

Her talents surely were uncommon,

Her Publisher (and Public too)

The hour of her demise may rue—

For never more within his shop he—

Pray—Was not she interred at Coppet?

Thus run our time and tongues away;—

But, to return, Sir, to your play:

Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal,

Unless 't were acted by O'Neill.

My hands are full—my head so busy,

I'm almost dead—and always dizzy;

And so, with endless truth and hurry,

Dear Doctor, I am yours, . August 21, 1817. [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 139-141. Lines 67-82 first published, Letters, 1900, iv. 161.]