Of The Seat Of Love.


To W. K. F.

The liver is a golden flower
That gaily blooms on bowling-greens,
Expanding in the sunny shower
Of conscientious seltzogenes;
But if to orange supervenes
That execrable colour mauve,
Even Diana quickly gleans
The liver is the seat of love.

The liver, from its secret bower,
With forty cubic inches leans
To cull th’ intoxicating hour
That comes alike to cats and queens.
Four passionate pounds, behind the screens,
It weighs, and whispers Venus’ dove
To tell the other go-betweens
The liver is the seat of love.

The heart has circulation power
And vigorously incarnadines
The blood that makes the liver tower
The richest of our magazines:
Yet folk of forty, full of beans,
Declining shares of pudding, prove
This truth of surplus saccharines—
The liver is the seat of love.


HELEN! thy beauty is a means
To show the bile doth gently rove
Like those Nicæan barquentines …
The liver is the seat of love.

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