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SSUME that we are friends. Assume
A common taste for old costume, Old pictures,-books. Then dream us sitting, -Us two,-in some soft-lighted room.
Outside the wind;-the “ways are mire.'
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Silent at first, in time we glow ;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing
“Reveils” and “Couchers,” “ Balls” and “ Fêtes”; Anon we glide to “crocks” and plates,
Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over
Then I produce my Prize, in truth;
And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, (Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)
And so we fall to why and how
Divine, at length, the fable under .
THE BALLAD À-LA-MODE.
Tout vient à point à qui peut attendre."
Scene.—A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids
shooting at Butterflies. THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor).
THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work).
BARON, you doze.
THE BARON (closing his book).
I, Madame? No.
THE BARON. Nay,—'twas a song of SAINTE-AULAIRE.
THE COUNTESS. Then read me one.
We've time to spare : If I can catch the clock-face there, 'Tis barely eight.
What shall it be, --A tale of woe, or perfidy?
THE BARON (reads).
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You bid mee -Go my Way!'
'Ah, Colin! foolish Colin !
(The Maiden answered so,) If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them, You may go!'
“But when her Eyes she opened,
(Although the Sun it shone,) She found the Shepherd had not stirred
'Because the Light was gone!'
“Ah, Cupid! wanton Cupid !
'Twas ever thus your Way: When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
THE BARON (turning the page).
Now, that's a breach!