Lxviii

No, I want sky not sea, prefer the larks to shrimps, And never dive so deep but that I get a glimpse O' the blue above, a breath of the air around. Elvire, I seize--by catching at the melted beryl here, The tawny hair that just has trickled off,--Fifine! Did not we two trip forth to just enjoy the scene, The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage, Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage-- Dabble, and there an end, with foam and froth o'er face, Till suddenly Fifine suggested change of place? Now we taste æther, scorn the ware, and interchange apace No ordinary thoughts, but such as evidence The cultivated mind in both. On what pretence Are you and I to sneer at who lent help to hand, And gave the lucky lift?