Could it but for a longer Space / Lengthen the Bliſs it let's us taſte, / Who would not doat on't? But alas! / The Joy's too exquiſite to laſt. / Two white Herculean Pillars prop / The tufted Gin, the tempting Snare; / When they divide, then in we pop, / Before we well know where we are. / Then that for this, and tit for tat; / But when the pleaſing Minute's flown, / As uſeleſs it returns the Bait, / And both look fooliſh when 'tis done.

Moſt great and puiſant Monarke of the earth, Your Baſſoe wil accompliſh your beheſt: And ſhew your pleaſure to the Perſean, As fits the Legate of the ſtately Turke.

an internal remedy

The buzzer on Matthew's desk rang violently at this point, bzzt-bzzt...