Puslapio vaizdai

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind

Terentia's skirting;

Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;

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
Behind the new each elder face

Defined as clearly;

Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our "world" to-day 's as good or ill,—
As cultured (nearly),

As yours was, Horace! You alone,

Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.


་་ Il me faut des émotions."


YOU ask me, Lydia, "whether I,


If you refuse my suit, shall die.” (Now pray don't let this hurt you) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin's point The sole resource of virtue ;

Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure

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,

Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer-No.

"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 hair-
Some easier Amaryllis."

I cannot promise to be cold

If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I hope to quite forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,
While man has social duties;
But, if you ask shall I prefer

To you I honour so

A somewhat visionary Her,
I answer truly-No.

You fear, you frankly add, "to find
In me too late the altered mind

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

That you could ever grow

Less amiable than you are now,—

But-to be serious-if you care
To know how I shall really bear
This much-discussed rejection,
I answer you. As feeling men
Behave, in best romances, when

You outrage their affection ;-
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,
Despair is indicated;
Enforced by all the liquid grief

Which hugest pocket-handkerchief
Has ever simulated;

And when, arrived so far, you say
In tragic accents "Go,"

Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,


And firmly answer No.



"Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis,


'HARLES,—for it seems you wish to know,


You wonder what could scare me so,

And why, in this long-locked bureau,

With trembling fingers,

With tragic air, I now replace

This ancient web of yellow lace,

Among whose faded folds the trace

Of perfume lingers.

Friend of my youth, severe as true,
I guess the train your thoughts pursue;
But this my state is nowise due

To indigestion;

I had forgotten it was there,

A scarf that Some-one used to wear.

Hinc illa lacrima,—so spare

Your cynic question.

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