AUGUSTA WEBSTER - FREDERICK LOCKER Lys. Myr. Yes. 465 Throw the curtains back. Put out those lights. Now sing until I sleep. [Exeunt Servants. No dirges, boy; that song Klydone lov'd, Philomel and the aloe flower, sing that. Lys. [Sings.] Joy that's half too keen and true Oh the sweetness of the tears! Lost, comes not new. (One blossom for a hundred years.) Grief that's fond, and dies not soon, Oh the pain of the delight! Loses Love's boon. Worse follow'd soon the jade Whilst her friends thought that they'd After such shocking games In female conduct, flaw Of compensation. Large congregation. Blest be his fat form! Changed is the garb he wore, Preacher was never more Priz'd than is Uncle for Pulpit or platform. THE characters of great and small Come ready-made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too, and all (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life, Some love their hobby till it flings them. How many love a pretty wife For love of the éclat she brings them! A little to relieve my mind I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, But more because I'm disinclin'd To enter on a painful matter: Once I was bashful; I'll allow I've blush'd for words untimely spoken; I still am rather shy, and now. And now the ice is fairly broken. We all have secrets: you have one Which may n't be quite your charming spouse's ; We all lock up a skeleton In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars, who exhaust their days And nights in probing where our smart is, And who, excepting spiteful ways, We hug this phantom we detest, Now, are we not afflicted mortals? As Dives rich, and brave as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre. Old Dives fears a pauper fate, So hoarding is his ruling passion : Some gloomy souls anticipate A waistcoat straiter than the fashion! She childless pines, that lonely wife, And secret tears are bitter shedding; Hector may tremble all his life, And die,- but not of that he's dreading. Ah me, the World!—how fast it spins! The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles; They shriek, they stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan; the cry for love Mounts up from this poor seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER infinite in pity. When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps Its ghastly carnival; but hearken! How dry the rattle of the bones! That sound was not to make you start meant : Stand by! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. |