On a lap-dog of the Miss Loth, called Belle
who was drowned for listening to
one of the first calls of nature -
supposed to be written by the above ladies.
If ever 'twas proper and lawful and decent
To mourn for a death both untimely & recent,
It certain is now -- Each grace and each muse
In the dear little creature a spice did infuse.
Like a sweet pretty lady she bridled her chin
And trip'd o'er the floor like another Miss Prim
And when the dear animal open'd its throat
Urania herself might have mother'd the note:
No coxcomb that pats o'er the rough-pebbled street
Or Beaux-ling self pleased so smooth & so sweet
Could meet with a smile or even a simper
If Belle dearer Belle was observed to whimper.
But if in sweet blandishment Belle frisk'd around
E'en wits with the beaux in despair left the ground.
But she's gone, lovely creature! the sweetest of curs
To weep is our LOT, but to slumber is hers.