Page:The heptalogia, or, The seven against sense - a cap with seven bells (IA heptalogiaorseve00swin).pdf/72

 O, fate surpassing other dooms, O, hope above all wrecks of time! O, light that fills all vanquished glooms, O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme! I covered either little foot, I drew the strings about its waist; Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit, But barely decent, hardly chaste, Its nudity had startled me; But when the petticoats were on, 'I know,' I said; 'its name shall be Paul Cyril Athanasius John.' 'Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.' My brain swooned, sick with failing sense; With all perception in a whirl, How could I tell the difference? 'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.' And all my soul was soothed to hear