« AnkstesnisTęsti »
FRANK (in the grass). Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper,
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun !
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.
JACK. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ;
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.
Say—by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing?
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.
JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ;This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam,- -a miracle of art.
Grant me a soft alliterative song !
FRANK. Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.
Not where the brook traditionally “purls,"
Seek I the gem,—the paragon of girls.
Not in the sham and stucco of a square, -
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.
Back from the brows, imperially curled ;
Holding the roof that covers in a world.
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn.
Mine's a musician,-musical at heart, -
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.
Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees,
Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees.
LAWRENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with drooping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm.
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.
Round with so delicate divinity, that men,
Bend to the goddess, manifest again.
FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,
Cynics to boot. I know the children run, Seeing her come, for naught that I discover,
Save that she brings the summer and the sun.
Crowned with a sweet, continual control,
E’en to her own nobility of soul.
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame:
Jack's sister Florence, ,—now you know her name.
LAWRENCE. “Jack's sister Florence !” Never, Francis, never.
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant. She like the country! Ah, she's far too clever~
FRANK. There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent.
LAWRENCE. You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare.
Sorry to differ. Jack,—the word 's with you.
FRANK. How is it, Umpire? Though the motto 's threadbare,
“ Cælum, non animum”—is, I take it, true.
Flattered, I 'm sure,—but both of you romance.
Merely observing—you have n't got a chance.