Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will; Asterie flirting, Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back. So with the rest. Who will may trace Defined as clearly; Science proceeds, and man stands still; As yours was, Horace! You alone, V TO "LYDIA LANGUISH” "Il me faut des émotions." -BLANCHE AMORY OU ask me, Lydia, "whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die." Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Except against my wishes; For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes; But if you ask me whether I Composedly can go, "You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall "quickly find as fair Some new Neæra's tangled hairSome easier Amaryl'is." I cannot promise to be cold While man has social duties; But if you ask shall I prefer To you I honour so, A somewhat visionary Her, You fear, you frankly add, "to find That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree) Must have septennial changes; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change So as to change together: But, had you asked me to allow But to be serious-if you care I answer you. As feeling men Behave, in best romances, when Enforced by all the liquid grief And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents "Go," Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay, And firmly answer-No A GAGE D'AMOUR (HORACE, III. 8) "Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis miraris?" С НА 'HARLES,—for it seems you wish to know, You wonder what could scare me so, And why, in this long-locked bureau, With tragic air, I now replace This ancient web of yellow lace, Among whose faded folds the trace Friend of my youth, severe as true, To indigestion; I had forgotten it was there, A scarf that Some-one used to wear. Hinc illæ lacrima,-so spare Your cynic question. |