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I'd rather wear

E'en such a patched and melancholy air,

As his, that motley one,-who keeps the wall,
And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival.


My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells
To mournful moving of his cap and bells.
He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free,-
As Cowards War,-as young Maids Constancy.
Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove;
He loves me as the Inquisition Thought;—


"He loves?-he loves?" Why all this loving 's naught!


And "Naught (quoth JACQUOT) makes the sum of Love!"


The cynic knave! How call you this one here?—
This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near,

And circles, like a cat around a cage,

To snatch the surplus.


CHERUBIN, the page.

'Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile,

And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache
Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile,
He lives to plague the swans upon the lake,
To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake.


And these that swim aside—who may these be?


Those—are two gentlemen of Picardy,

Equal in blood,—of equal bravery:—

D'AURELLES and MAUFRIGNAC. They hunt in pair;
I mete them morsels with an equal care,
Lest they should eat each other,—or eat Me.

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Ah me !-he will not come !

He swims at large,—looks shyly on,—is dumb.
Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble,
But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble,
Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble,
Slips smartly in,—and gets the proffered crumb.
He should have all my crumbs-if he'd but ask;
Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task
To gain a something more. But though he's brave,
He's far too proud to be a dangling slave;

And then-he's modest! So... he will not come !


IS an old dial, dark with many a stain;


In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,

Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row:
I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou:

I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,

That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed;
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone ;

And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while,

Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,

Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady to the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale-
An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love,
Straying among the alleys with a book,-
Herrick or Herbert,―watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found

Of some dread secret half-accounted true,—
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone;
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,

A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;

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