I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry her; but, confound it! the words won't rhyme.

Plague on it! Does nothing rhyme with 'simplicity'?
Ah! I have it now: 'Lovers should, whoe'er they be, Love in all simplicity.' But what next?
how am I to go on?
I say, Ben Zoof," he called aloud to his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, "did you ever compose any poetry ?" "No, captain," answered the man promptly: "I have never made any verses, but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fete of Montmartre." "Can you remember them ?" "Remember them! to be sure I can.

This is the way they began: 'Come in! come in! you'll not repent The entrance money you have spent; The wondrous mirror in this place Reveals your future sweetheart's face.'" "Bosh!" cried Servadac in disgust; "your verses are detestable trash." "As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe." "Hold your tongue, man," said Servadac peremptorily; "I have made another couplet.
'Lovers should, whoe'er they be, Love in all simplicity; Lover, loving honestly, Offer I myself to thee.'" Beyond this, however, the captain's poetical genius was impotent to carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o'clock he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition..