Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

Sir John Dering, at loss for a rhyme, paused in the throes of composition to flick a speck of dust from snowy ruffle, to glance from polished floor to painted ceiling, to survey his own reflection in the mirror opposite, noting with a critical eye all that pertained to his exquisite self, the glossy curls of his great, black periwig, the graceful folds of full-skirted, embroidered coat, his sleek silk stockings and dainty, gold-buckled shoes; and discovering naught in his resplendent person to cavil at, turned back to his unfinished manuscript, sighing plaintively.

"‘Soul'! " he murmured; "a damnable word, so many rhymes to't and none of 'em apt! Roll, coal, hole, foal, goal, pole. a devilish word! Mole, shoal, vole-pish!"