I shipped, d’ye see, in a Revenue sloop,
      And, off Cape Finisteere,
            A merchantman we see,
            A Frenchman, going free,
      So we made for the bold Mounseer,
                  D’ye see?
      We made for the bold Mounseer!
But she proved to be a Frigate—and she up with her ports,
      And fires with a thirty-two!
            It come uncommon near,
            But we answered with a cheer,
      Which paralysed the Parley-voo,
                  D’ye see?
      Which paralysed the Parley-voo!
Then our Captain he up and he says, says he,
      “That chap we need not fear,—
            We can take her, if we like,
            She is sartin for to strike,
      For she’s only a darned Mounseer,
                  D’ye see?
      She’s only a darned Mounseer!
But to fight a French fal-lal—it’s like hittin’ of a gal—
      It’s a lubberly thing for to do;
            For we, with all our faults,
            Why, we’re sturdy British salts,
      While she’s but a Parley-voo,
                  D’ye see?
      A miserable Parley-voo!”

So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze,
      As we gives a compassionating cheer;
            Froggee answers with a shout
            As he sees us go about,
      Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer,
                  D’ye see?
      Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer!
And I’ll wager in their joy they kissed each other’s cheek
      (Which is what them furriners do),
            And they blessed their lucky stars
            We were hardy British tars
      Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo,
                  D’ye see?
      Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo!

He is an Englishman!
            For he himself has said it,
            And it’s greatly to his credit,
That he is an Englishman!
            For he might have been a Roosian,
            A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an!
            But in spite of all temptations,
            To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman!
                     Hurrah!
For the true-born Englishman!

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:
I’m a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are sham.
Each little fault of temper and each social defect
In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct.
To all their little weaknesses I open people’s eyes,
And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;
I love my fellow-creatures—I do all the good I can—
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
                     And I can’t think why!

To compliments inflated I’ve a withering reply,
And vanity I always do my best to mortify;
A charitable action I can skilfully dissect;
And interested motives I’m delighted to detect.
I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns,
And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns;
But to benefit humanity, however much I plan,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
                     And I can’t think why!

I’m sure I’m no ascetic; I’m as pleasant as can be;
You’ll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;
I’ve an irritating chuckle, I’ve a celebrated sneer,
I’ve an entertaining snigger, I’ve a fascinating leer;
To everybody’s prejudice I know a thing or two;
I can tell a woman’s age in half a minute—and I do—
But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
                     And I can’t think why!

Sad is that woman’s lot who, year by year,
Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear;
As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs,
Impatiently begins to “dim her eyes”!—
Herself compelled, in life’s uncertain gloamings,
To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved “combings”—
Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey,
To “make up” for lost time, as best she may!

   Silvered is the raven hair,
      Spreading is the parting straight,
   Mottled the complexion fair,
      Halting is the youthful gait,
   Hollow is the laughter free,
      Spectacled the limpid eye,
   Little will be left of me,
      In the coming by-and-by!

Fading is the taper waist—
   Shapeless grows the shapely limb,
And although securely laced,
   Spreading is the figure trim!
Stouter than I used to be,
   Still more corpulent grow I—
There will be too much of me
   In the coming by-and-by!

I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,
            And left him, gaily prattling
With a highly respectable Gondolier,
Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
And teach him the trade of a timoneer
            With his own beloved bratling.

               Both of the babes were strong and stout,
                  And, considering all things, clever.
               Of that there is no manner of doubt—
               No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
                  No possible doubt whatever.

Time sped, and when at the end of a year
            I sought that infant cherished,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—
I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear—
            That Gondolier had perished!

            A taste for drink, combined with gout,
               Had doubled him up for ever.
            Of that there is no manner of doubt—
            No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
               No possible doubt whatever.

But owing, I’m much disposed to fear,
            To his terrible taste for tippling,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Could never declare with a mind sincere
Which of the two was his offspring dear,
            And which the Royal stripling!

            Which was which he could never make out,
               Despite his best endeavour.
            Of that there is no manner of doubt—
            No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
               No possible doubt whatever.

The children followed his old career—
            (This statement can’t be parried)
Of a highly respectable Gondolier:
Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—
But which of the two is not quite clear—
            Is the Royal Prince you married!

            Search in and out and round about
               And you’ll discover never
            A tale so free from every doubt—
            All probable, possible shadow of doubt—
               All possible doubt whatever!

Oh, foolish fay,
   Think you because
Man’s brave array
   My bosom thaws
I’d disobey
   Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
   In realms above,
In tendency
   To fall in love
Resemble I
   The amorous dove?

         Oh, amorous dove!
            Type of Ovidius Naso!
               This heart of mine
               Is soft as thine,
            Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows
   With heat intense
I turn the hose
   Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
   At small expense!
We must maintain
   Our fairy law;
That is the main
   On which to draw—
In that we gain
   A Captain Shaw.

         Oh, Captain Shaw!
            Type of true love kept under!
               Could thy Brigade
               With cold cascade
            Quench my great love, I wonder!

Is life a boon?
      If so, it must befall
      That Death, whene’er he call,
Must call too soon.
      Though fourscore years he give
      Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
      What kind of plaint have I,
      Who perish in July?
      I might have had to die
Perchance in June!

Is life a thorn?
      Then count it not a whit!
      Man is well done with it;
Soon as he’s born
      He should all means essay
      To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
      Poor captured fugitive,
      My life most gladly give—
      I might have had to live
Another morn!

I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,
I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral;
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;
About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news,
With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse,
I’m very good at integral and differential calculus,
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

I know our mythic history—King Arthur’s and Sir Caradoc’s,
I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox;
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.
I tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the “Frogs” of Aristophanes;
Then I can hum a fugue, of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense “Pinafore.”
Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you every detail of Caractacus’s uniform.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

In fact, when I know what is meant by “mamelon” and “ravelin,”
When I can tell at sight a Chassepôt rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I’m more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,
In short, when I’ve a smattering of elementary strategy,
You’ll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee—
For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.
But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!

If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,
   Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
   Rattle them off to a popular tune!
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—
   Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;
The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—
   Coolness of Paget about to trepan—
The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—
   Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—
   Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of a D’Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
   Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—
   Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!
                     Take of these elements all that is fusible,
                     Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible,
                     Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
                     And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,
   Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
   Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
   Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—
   Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—
Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal—
Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—
   Beadle of Burlington—Richardson’s show—
   Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
                  Take of these elements all that is fusible—
                  Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible—
                  Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
                  And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

The Sun, whose rays
Are all ablaze
   With ever-living glory,
Will not deny
His majesty—
   He scorns to tell a story:
He won’t exclaim,
“I blush for shame,
   So kindly be indulgent,”
But, fierce and bold,
In fiery gold,
   He glories all effulgent!

         I mean to rule the earth,
            As he the sky—
         We really know our worth,
            The Sun and I!

Observe his flame,
That placid dame,
   The Moon’s Celestial Highness;
There’s not a trace
Upon her face
   Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light
That, through the night,
   Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell,
She lights up well,
   So I, for one, don’t blame her!

         Ah, pray make no mistake,
            We are not shy;
         We’re very wide awake,
            The Moon and I!

When a felon’s not engaged in his employment,
   Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
   Is just as great as any honest man’s.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
   When constabulary duty’s to be done:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
   A policeman’s lot is not a happy one!

When the enterprising burglar isn’t burgling,
   When the cut-throat isn’t occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
   And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster’s finished jumping on his mother,
   He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
   The policeman’s lot is not a happy one!

      Whene’er I poke
      Sarcastic joke
         Replete with malice spiteful,
      The people vile
      Politely smile
            And vote me quite delightful!
      Now, when a wight
      Sits up all night
            Ill-natured jokes devising,
      And all his wiles
      Are met with smiles,
            It’s hard, there’s no disguising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

      When German bands,
      From music stands
         Play Wagner imperfectly—
      I bid them go—
      They don’t say no,
            But off they trot directly!
      The organ boys
      They stop their noise
            With readiness surprising,
      And grinning herds
      Of hurdy-gurds
            Retire apologising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

      I’ve offered gold,
      In sums untold,
         To all who’d contradict me—
      I’ve said I’d pay
      A pound a day
            To any one who kicked me—
      I’ve bribed with toys
      Great vulgar boys
            To utter something spiteful,
      But, bless you, no!
      They will be so
            Confoundedly politeful!
In short, these aggravating lads,
They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads,
They give me this and they give me that,
And I’ve nothing whatever to grumble at!

When Britain really ruled the waves—
   (In good Queen Bess’s time)
The House of Peers made no pretence
To intellectual eminence,
   Or scholarship sublime;
Yet Britain won her proudest bays
In good Queen Bess’s glorious days!

When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,
   As every child can tell,
The House of Peers, throughout the war,
Did nothing in particular,
   And did it very well;
Yet Britain set the world ablaze
In good King George’s glorious days!

And while the House of Peers withholds
   Its legislative hand,
And noble statesmen do not itch
To interfere with matters which
   They do not understand,
As bright will shine Great Britain’s rays,
As in King George’s glorious days!

Brightly dawns our wedding day;
         Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!
         Whither, whither art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
         What though mortal joys be hollow?
         Pleasures come, if sorrows follow.
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
   Ding dong!  Ding dong!
         Yet until the shadows fall
         Over one and over all,
         Sing a merry madrigal—
                  Fal la!

Let us dry the ready tear;
         Though the hours are surely creeping,
         Little need for woeful weeping
Till the sad sundown is near.
         All must sip the cup of sorrow,
         I to-day and thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song—
   Ding dong!  Ding dong!
         What though solemn shadows fall,
         Sooner, later, over all?
         Sing a merry madrigal—
                  Fal la!

The Duke.

Small titles and orders
For Mayors and Recorders
      I get—and they’re highly delighted.
M.P.s baronetted,
Sham Colonels gazetted,
      And second-rate Aldermen knighted.
Foundation-stone laying
I find very paying,
      It adds a large sum to my makings.
At charity dinners
The best of speech-spinners,
      I get ten per cent on the takings!

The Duchess.

I present any lady
Whose conduct is shady
      Or smacking of doubtful propriety;
When Virtue would quash her
I take and whitewash her
      And launch her in first-rate society.
I recommend acres
Of clumsy dressmakers—
      Their fit and their finishing touches;
A sum in addition
They pay for permission
      To say that they make for the Duchess!

The Duke.

Those pressing prevailers,
The ready-made tailors,
      Quote me as their great double-barrel;
I allow them to do so,
Though Robinson Crusoe
      Would jib at their wearing apparel!
I sit, by selection,
Upon the direction
      Of several Companies bubble;
As soon as they’re floated
I’m freely bank-noted—
      I’m pretty well paid for my trouble!

The Duchess.

At middle-class party
I play at écarté—
      And I’m by no means a beginner;
To one of my station
The remuneration—
      Five guineas a night and my dinner.
I write letters blatant
On medicines patent—
      And use any other you mustn’t;
And vow my complexion
Derives its perfection
      From somebody’s soap—which it doesn’t.

The Duke.

We’re ready as witness
To any one’s fitness
      To fill any place or preferment;
We’re often in waiting
At junket fêting,
      And sometimes attend an interment.
In short, if you’d kindle
The spark of a swindle,
      Lure simpletons into your clutches,
Or hoodwink a debtor,
You cannot do better
      Than trot out a Duke or a Duchess!

The air is charged with amatory numbers—
   Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers’ lays.
Peace, peace, old heart!  Why waken from its slumbers
   The aching memory of the old, old days?

Time was when Love and I were well acquainted;
   Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
   None better loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
   Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—
   Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!

Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled;
   Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;
Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;
   And when I coughed all thought the end was near!
I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o’er me—
   For I was loved beyond all other men.
Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me—
   Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
   I’ve got a little list—I’ve got a little list
Of social offenders who might well be underground,
   And who never would be missed—who never would be missed!
There’s the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs—
All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs—
All children who are up in dates, and floor you with ’em flat—
All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like that—
And all third persons who on spoiling tête-à-têtes insist—
   They’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!

There’s the nigger serenader, and the others of his race,
   And the piano organist—I’ve got him on the list!
And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face,
   They never would be missed—they never would be missed!
Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone,
All centuries but this, and every country but his own;
And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy,
And who “doesn’t think she waltzes, but would rather like to try”;
And that fin-de-siècle anomaly, the scorching motorist—
   I don’t think he’d be missed—I’m sure he’d not be missed!

And that Nisi Prius nuisance, who just now is rather rife,
   The Judicial humorist—I’ve got him on the list!
All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life—
   They’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind,
Such as—What-d’ye-call-him—Thing’em-Bob, and likewise—Never-mind,
And ’St—’st—’st—and What’s-his-name, and also—You-know-who—
(The task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to you!)
But it really doesn’t matter whom you put upon the list,
   For they’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!

They intend to send a wire
      To the moon;
And they’ll set the Thames on fire
      Very soon;
Then they learn to make silk purses
      With their rigs
From the ears of Lady Circe’s
      Piggy-wigs.
And weasels at their slumbers
      They’ll trepan;
To get sunbeams from cucumbers
      They’ve a plan.
They’ve a firmly rooted notion
They can cross the Polar Ocean,
And they’ll find Perpetual Motion
      If they can!

      These are the phenomena
      That every pretty domina
         Hopes that we shall see
         At this Universitee!

As for fashion, they forswear it,
      So they say,
And the circle—they will square it
      Some fine day;
Then the little pigs they’re teaching
      For to fly;
And the niggers they’ll be bleaching
      By-and-by!
Each newly joined aspirant
      To the clan
Must repudiate the tyrant
      Known as Man;
They mock at him and flout him,
For they do not care about him,
And they’re “going to do without him”
      If they can!

      These are the phenomena
      That every pretty domina
         Hopes that we shall see
         At this Universitee!

Braid the raven hair,
   Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
   In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
   Dye the coral lip,
Emphasise the grace
   Of her ladyship!
Art and nature, thus allied,
Go to make a pretty bride!

Sit with downcast eye,
   Let it brim with dew;
Try if you can cry,
   We will do so, too.
When you’re summoned, start
   Like a frightened roe;
Flutter, little heart,
   Colour, come and go!
Modesty at marriage tide
Well becomes a pretty bride!

Rising early in the morning,
      We proceed to light the fire,
Then our Majesty adorning
      In its work-a-day attire,
            We embark without delay
            On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches
Of political despatches,
      And foreign politicians circumvent;
Then, if business isn’t heavy,
We may hold a Royal levée,
      Or ratify some Acts of Parliament:
Then we probably review the household troops—
With the usual “Shalloo humps” and “Shalloo hoops!”
Or receive with ceremonial and state
An interesting Eastern Potentate.
      After that we generally
      Go and dress our private valet—

(It’s a rather nervous duty—he a touchy little man)—
      Write some letters literary
      For our private secretary—
(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.)
      Then, in view of cravings inner,
      We go down and order dinner;
Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate—
      Spend an hour in titivating
      All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;
Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.
            Oh, philosophers may sing
            Of the troubles of a King,
      Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;
            But the privilege and pleasure
            That we treasure beyond measure
      Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry
On a bun and glass of sherry),
      If we’ve nothing in particular to do,
We may make a Proclamation,
Or receive a Deputation—
      Then we possibly create a Peer or two.
Then we help a fellow-creature on his path
With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:
Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State
To a festival, a function, or a fête.
      Then we go and stand as sentry
      At the Palace (private entry),
Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,
      While the warrior on duty
      Goes in search of beer and beauty
(And it generally happens that he hasn’t far to go).
      He relieves us, if he’s able,
      Just in time to lay the table.

Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,
      With a pleasure that’s emphatic;
      Then we seek our little attic
With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.
            Oh, philosophers may sing
            Of the troubles of a King,
But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;
            And the culminating pleasure
            That we treasure beyond measure
Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

A Lady fair, of lineage high,
Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by—
The Maid was radiant as the sun,
The Ape was a most unsightly one—
      So it would not do—
      His scheme fell through;
For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,
      Expressed such terror
      At his monstrous error,
That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape,
The picture of a disconcerted Ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,
He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,
He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,
   And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.
      But it would not do,
      The scheme fell through—
For the Maid was Beauty’s fairest Queen,
      With golden tresses,
      Like a real princess’s,
While the Ape, despite his razor keen,
Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits,
He crammed his feet into bright tight boots,
And to start his life on a brand-new plan,
He christened himself Darwinian Man!
      But it would not do,
      The scheme fell through—
For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,
      Was a radiant Being,
      With a brain far-seeing—
While a Man, however well-behaved,
At best is only a monkey shaved!

To a garden full of posies
   Cometh one to gather flowers;
   And he wanders through its bowers
Toying with the wanton roses,
   Who, uprising from their beds,
   Hold on high their shameless heads
With their pretty lips a-pouting,
Never doubting—never doubting
   That for Cytherean posies
   He would gather aught but roses.

In a nest of weeds and nettles,
   Lay a violet, half hidden;
   Hoping that his glance unbidden
Yet might fall upon her petals.
   Though she lived alone, apart,
   Hope lay nestling at her heart,
But, alas! the cruel awaking
Set her little heart a-breaking,
   For he gathered for his posies
   Only roses—only roses!

Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;
   Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
Of nature the laws I obey,
   For nature is constantly changing.
The moon in her phases is found,
   The time and the wind and the weather,
The months in succession come round,
   And you don’t find two Mondays together.
         Consider the moral, I pray,
            Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
         Who loves this young lady to-day,
            And loves that young lady to-morrow!

You cannot eat breakfast all day.
   Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away,
   To turn your attention to dinner;
And it’s not in the range of belief
   That you could hold him as a glutton,
Who, when he is tired of beef,
   Determines to tackle the mutton.
         But this I am ready to say,
            If it will diminish their sorrow,
         I’ll marry this lady to-day,
            And I’ll marry that lady to-morrow!

Oh! is there not one maiden breast
   Which does not feel the moral beauty
Of making worldly interest
   Subordinate to sense of duty?
Who would not give up willingly
   All matrimonial ambition
To rescue such a one as I
   From his unfortunate position?

Oh, is there not one maiden here,
   Whose homely face and bad complexion
Have caused all hopes to disappear
   Of ever winning man’s affection?
To such a one, if such there be,
   I swear by heaven’s arch above you,
If you will cast your eyes on me,—
   However plain you be—I’ll love you!