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Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law ;
Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet ; Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',
They bob—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fifteen
Here capers Prudence thrifty; Here Prodigal leads down the green
A blushing Maid of fifty;
And some but shilly-shally;
(Ah me !)-in “Cupid's Alley."
And sometimes one to one will dance,
And think of one behind her ;
Yet look all ways to find her ;
Some win him with a sally;
Strange fate of “Cupid's Alley."
And some will dance an age or so
Who came for half a minute ;
Before they well begin it;
And some will vow they ’re “ danced to death,”
Who (somehow) always rally; Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith),
Strange cures !-in “Cupid's Alley."
It may be one will dance to-day,
And dance no more to-morrow;
And nurse a life-long sorrow;
Unite, dispart, and dally,
Not less-in “Cupid's Alley."
For till that City's wheel-work vast
And shuddering beams shall crumble ;And till that Fiddler lean at last
From off his seat shall tumble ;-
This quaint, fantastic ballet
Must last—in “Cupid's Alley."
THE IDYLL OF THE CARP.
(The Scene is in a garden,-where you please,
So that it lie in France, and have withal
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal.
THE PRINCESS. 'HESE, DENISE, are my Suitors!
These fish. I feed them daily here at morn and night With crumbs of favour,-scraps of graciousness, Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish, But serving just to edge an appetite.
(Throwing bread.) Make haste, Messieurs ! Make haste, then! Hurry. See,See how they swim ! Would you
say, confess, Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, When the King comes ?
You ’re jesting!
Not at all. Watch but the great one yonder! There's the Duke ;Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke; Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings ; Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair? You surely have, DENISE.
I think I have.
THE PRINCESS. Why that's my good chambellan—with his seal. A kind old man !-he carves me orange-peel In quaint devices at refection-hours, Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers, Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, Such as men loved when people wooed like birds And spoke the true note first. No suitor he, Yet loves me too,—though in a graybeard's key.
O speckless, fleckless fish! Who is it, pray,
FONTENAY. You know him not? My prince of shining locks ! My pearl !--my Phoenix !—my pomander-box! He loves not Me, alas! The man 's too vain ! He loves his doublet better than my suit,His graces than my favours. Still his sash Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute Not wholly out of tune
Ai! what a splash! Who is it comes with such a sudden dash Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear?