“Suffices that, for this our Tale, There dwelt in a Thessalian Vale,

Of Tales like this the frequent Scene,

A Shepherdess, by name Dorine.

Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she ;

In short, the whole Artillery.

93

Her Beauty made some local Stir ;-
Men marked it. So did Jupiter.
This Shepherdess Dorine adored. .
Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured—
(He's scrawled them here!) We'll sum in brief

His fable on his second leaf.

(Writes.)

There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote:"L'ÉTOILE'S is but a mock-bird's note."

THE ABBÉ (waking).

Implored's the word, I think. But where,―
Where is my paper? Ah! 'tis there!
Eh! what?

(Reads.)

THE METAMORPHOSIS.
(not in Ovid.)

"The Shepherdess Dorine adored
The Shepherd-Boy Clitander;
But Jove himself, Olympus' Lord,
The Shepherdess Dorine adored.

[Exit.

Our Abbe's Aid the Pair Implored;And changed to Goose and Gander, The Shepherdess Dorine adored

The Shepherd-Boy Clitander!"

L'ÉTOILE,—by all the Muses!

Peste!

He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest.
No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day;
Next time 'twill be my turn to play.

THE SONG OUT OF SEASON.

"Point de culte sans mystère."

SCENE.-A Corridor in a Château, with Busts and
Venice chandeliers.

MONSIEUR L'ÉTOILE.

Two VOICES.

M. L'ÉTOILE (carrying a Rose).

THIS

HIS is the place. MUTINE said here. 'Through the Mancini room, and near The fifth Venetian chandelier. . ."

-

The fifth ?-She knew there were but four ;-
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.

(Humming.)

Tra-la, tra-la! If BIJOU wake,
She'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake!
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake;
This surely is the door.

(Sings softly.)

"When Jove, the Skies' Director,
First saw you sleep of yore,

He cried aloud for Nectar,

"The Nectar quickly pour,—
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!""

(No sound. I'll tap once more.)

(Sings again.) "Then came the Sire Apollo,

He past you where you lay; 'Come, Dian, rise and follow The dappled Hart to slay,— The rapid Hart to slay.""

(A rustling within.)

(Coquette! She heard before.)

(Sings again.) "And urchin Cupid after Beside the Pillow curled, He whispered you with Laughter, 'Awake and witch the World,→ O Venus, witch the World!'"

(Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur l'ABBÉ's verse.)

"So waken, waken, waken,

O You, whom we adore! Where Gods can be mistaken, Mere Mortals must be more,Poor Mortals must be more!"

(That merits an encore!)

"So waken, waken, waken!

O YOU whom we adore!"

(An energetic VOICE.) 'Tis thou, ANTOINE? Ah, Addle-pate! Ah, Thief of Valet, always late! Have I not told thee half-past eight A thousand times!

(Great agitation.)

But wait, but wait,

M. L'ÉTOILE (stupefied).
Just Skies! What hideous roar !-
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'nt forget:-
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old JOURDAIN's door!

(Retiring slowly.)

And yet, and yet,-it can't be she.
They prompted her. Who can it be?

(A second VOICE.)

IT WAS THE ABBÉ TI-RI-LI!