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! LAWRENCE. Sing to us then. Damotas in a choker, FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker Sing while you may. JACK. 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. FRANK. Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper, LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted Amber and foam,—a miracle of art. LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, Grant me a soft alliterative song! FRANK. Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAWRENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally "purls,"No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem,-the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, LAWRENCE. Best is the song with music interwoven : Mine's a musician,-musical at heart,— Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. FRANK. Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, 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, FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,— Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,— Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, Crowned with a sweet, continual control, Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely E'en to her own nobility of soul. FRANK. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 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, "Cœlum, non animum ”—is, I take it, true. JACK. "Souvent femme varie," as a rule, is truer ; Flattered, I'm sure,-but both of you romance. Happy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing-you have n't got a chance. |