Gladly I climbed along its dashing border, absorbing its divine music, and bathing from time to time in waftings of irised spray.

So poor Colin Clout, To whom raw onions give prospective zest, Consoling hours of dampest wintry work, Could hardly fancy any regal joys Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent: Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear Of waftings from that energetic bulb: 'Tis well that onion is not heresy.

Who would Desire an easier wafting to their death Then through this River?