"O come and be my mate!" said the Lion to the Sheep; "My love for you is deep!

I slay, a Lion should,

But you are mild and good!"
Said the Sheep, "I do no ill

Could not, had I the will —

But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill."
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!"
And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

"O come and be my mate!" said the Salmon to the Clam; 66 You are not wise, but I am.

I know sea and stream as well;

You know nothing but your shell.”

Said the Clam, "I'm slow of motion,
But my love is all devotion,

And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!"

They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!"

And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.

Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

I wrote some lines once on a time,
In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;

The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang;
An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

A' down my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;
An', raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were i' their doup!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,

Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,

"My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang."