"YES; I WRITE VERSES NOW AND THEN." ES; I write verses now and then, In their last quarter are my eyes, Or now, or never. Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! I cannot clear the five-bar gate, Thro' gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring: I cannot say the tender thing, Be't true or false, And am beginning to opine I fear that arm above that shoulder, And panting less. Ah! people were not half so wild WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. TU QUOQUE. AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. NELLIE. F I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, FRANK. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you! If I were you, NELLIE. when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M' Tavish, If I were you! If I were you, FRANK. who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best,-the mildest "honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you! NELLIE. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the " Cynical Review;" FRANK. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you! NELLIE. Really! you would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful, Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you! و" FRANK. "It is the cause." 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! FRANK. No, I remain. 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.) AUSTIN DOBSON. P "LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE." OOR Rose! I lift you from the street,— Than you should lie for random feet you. Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn! I saw you last in Edith's hair, A month—“ a little month "—ago— 'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, But let that pass. She gave you Behind the oleander To one, perhaps, of all the men— then Who best could understand her, Cyril, that, duly flattered, took, With just the same Arcadian look Then, having waltzed till every star And tossed you downward, scorning. Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,- And yet Y I'll drop you in the River. AUSTIN DOBSON. A. B. C. is an Angel of blushing eighteen : B seen: C is her Chaperon, who cheated at cards: Ꭰ is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards: E is her Eye, killing slowly but surely: F is the Fan, whence it peeped so demurely: G is the Glove of superlative kid: H is the Hand which it spitefully hid; I is the Ice which the fair one demanded:* L is the Lace which composed the chief part: M is the old Maid who watched the chits dance: N is the Nose she turned up at each glance: O is the Olga (just then in its prime): Р is the Partner who wouldn't keep time: |