Smug, rich and fantastic, old Fumbler was known,
He wedded a juicy, brisk girl of the town,
Her face like an angel, fair, plump, and a maid,
Her lute well in tune, could he but have played!
But lost was his skill--let him do what he can,
She finds him in bed a mere silly old man.
He coughs in her ear,"'Tis in vain to come on,
Forgive me, my eear, I'm a silly old man."
She laid his dry hand on her snowy white breast,
And from those fair hills gave a glimpse of the best.
But, ah, what is Youth when our life's but a span?
She found him an infant instead of a man!
"Ah, pardon," he cried,"that I'm weary so soon!
You have let down my bass, I'm no longer in Tune;
Lay down that dear instrument, prithee, lie still--
I can play but one lesson, and that I play ill."
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