Go, if NELLIE. you will. At once! And by express, sir! Where shall it be? To China-or Peru? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, If I were you! No, I remain. FRANK. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do ;Ah, you are strong,-I would not then be cruel, If I were you! NELLIE. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,— FRANK. One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,— NELLIE. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ?— FRANK. I should admit that I was piqué, too. NELLIE. Ask me to dance! I'd say no more about it, If I were you! [Waltz-Exeunt. A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO "Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd.” -CLAUDE TILLIER. "D"read" three hours. Both notes and text I'D Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. "You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?" "O, mine's a mere romancer!" "So Plato is." "Then read him-do; And I'll read mine in answer." I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,— She smiled. "My book in turn avers "But hear, the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile She smiled once more-" My book, I find, Then I" Why not? Ephesian law, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw She blushed-this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, "Agreed," I said. "For Socrates She read no more. I leapt the sill: THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE POOR Rose! I lift you from the street— Far better I should own you, Than you should lie for random feet, Where careless hands have thrown you! Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn! I saw you last in Edith's hair. Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith's favoured lover, A month "a little month "-ago- But let that pass. She gave you then— Behind the oleander To one, perhaps, of all the men, Who best could understand her, Cyril that, duly flattered, took, With just the same Arcadian look Then, having waltzed till every star Lit up his cynical cigar, And tossed you downward, scorning. Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet, She made my heart-strings quiver ; And yet you sha'n't lie in the street, I'll drop you in the River. |