Poetry Archives

“Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose
My purpose deadly.  In good truth I’ve been
Blest above others.  You have many rows
Of pistols it would seem.  Here, this shagreen
Case holds one that I fancy.  Silvered mounts
Are to my taste.  These letters ‘C. D. L.’
Its former owner?  Dead, you say.  Poor Ghost!
’Twill serve my turn though—”  Hastily he counts
The florins down upon the table.  “Well,
Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow’s toast.”