“What can I write in thee, O dainty book,  About whose daintiness quaint perfume lingers—Into whose pages dainty ladies look,  And turn thy dainty leaves with daintier fingers? ...{{pb}}No melodies have I for ladies' ear,  No roundelays for jocund lads and lasses—But only brawlings born of bitter beer,  And chorussed with the clink and clash of glasses. ...{{pb}}Thou breathest purity and humble worth—  The simple jest, the light laugh following after,I will not jar upon thy modest mirth  With harsher jest, or with less gentle laughter.”