I prithee thee
Thou that felt in love with miss Fanny,
I prithee to let me sing this symphony,
Thou who wanderst in sadness blissfully
don’t perpend this elegy a litany.
Thou who o’er poets bistiren thy voice willfully,
Alas! Thy life was riven abismally,
Dear Immortal Voice, I beseech thou timidly,
abet me being more a king, and less an Antigone.