Chapter 987 of 1964 · 58 words · ~1 min read

XXXVII.

This was Potemkin[396]--a great thing in days When homicide and harlotry made great; If stars and titles could entail long praise, His glory might half equal his estate. This fellow, being six foot high, could raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then Sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple.