"What can I write in thee, O dainty book, About whose daintiness quaint perfume lingers— Into whose pages dainty ladies look, And turn thy dainty leaves with daintier fingers? ...No melodies have I for ladies' ear, No roundelays for jocund lads and lasses— But only brawlings born of bitter beer, And chorussed with the clink and clash of glasses. ...Thou breathest purity and humble worth— The simple jest, the light laugh following after, I will not jar upon thy modest mirth With harsher jest, or with less gentle laughter."