Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

The senile stricture from whose imminence No catheter gives ’scape, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear the ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus chordee doth make cowards of us all ! And thus the native need of urination Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought And enterprises of great piss and po, meant With this regard, their currents corkscrew turn And lose the name of pumpship. Soft you now ! The fair Ophelia ! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered. OPHELIA. Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day ? HAM. I humbly thank you ! Well, well, well. OPH. My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed to redeliver : I pray you now receive them. HAM. No, not I. I never gave you aught. OPH. My honoured lord, you know right well you did. [Left disputing.] [109]