art doubly dear for things like these.

"No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,
Sweet pocket-handkerchef, thy worth profane,
For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again."

In another Elegy he expatiates on the beauty of Delia's locks;--

"Happy the _friseur_ who in Delia's hair,
With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove;
And happy in his death the dancing bear,
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

"Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interred, proceed,
Fine as the gleamy gossamer that spreads
Its filmy web-work over the tangled mead.

"Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive heart hath handcuffed in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the main.

"The Sylphs that round her radiant locks repair,
In flowing lustre bathe their brightened wings,
And elfin minstrels with assiduous care,
The ringlets rob for fairy fiddlestrings."

Of course Shufflebottom is tempted to another theft--a rape of the
lock--for which he incurs the fair Delia's condign displeasure--

"She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,
And while my heart with transport panted big,
She cast a fiery frown on me, and cried,
'You stupid puppy--you have spoilt my wig.'"

CHAPTER XII.

Lamb--His Farewell to Tobacco--Pink Hose--On the Melancholy of
Tailors--Roast Pig.

No one ever so finely commingled poetry and humour as Charles Lamb. In
his transparent crystal you are always seeing one colour through
another, and he was conscious of the charm of such combinations, for he
commends Andrew Marvell for such refinement. His early poems printed
with those of Coleridge, his schoolfellow at Christ's Hospital, abounded
with pure and tender sentiment, but never arrested the attention of the
public. We can find in them no promise of the brilliancy for which he
was afterwards so distinguished, except perhaps in his "Farewell to
Tobacco," where for a moment he allowed his Pegasus to take a more
fantastic flight.

"Scent, to match thy rich perfume,
Chemic art did ne'er presume,
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain;
Nature that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell,
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant,
Thou art the only manly scent."