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Then dwell not, Lily ! on an age
Of Fancy's wild creation,
For Beauty's meditation ;
No Front de Boeuf's vagaries,
Some morning at St. Mary's!
“Marry come up! I can see as far into a wall as another !"
IF you'll tell me the reason why Lucy de Vere
Thinks no more of her silks, or her satins;
She goes both to vespers and matins :
Who once cared for naught but his wine, has
In a niche, at St. Thomas Aquinas !
If you'll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will ride
As though he'd a witch on his crupper,
Or is going to meet her at supper;
With a horse that is better and faster,
If you'll tell me the reason why Isabel's eyes
Śparkle brighter than Isabeľs rubies ;
Turn sensible men into boobies :
To waltz, and my eye turned to thank hers, Why it was that my heart felt so wondrously light,
Though I hadn't a sou at my bankers !
If you'll tell me the reason a maiden must sigh
When she looks at a star or a planet;
When you know she has hardly began it;
And her breathing both fevered and faint is,
Can tell what that maiden's complaint is!
“L’Hymen, dit-on, craint les petits Cousins.”—SCRIBE. Had you ever a Cousin, Tom ?
Did your Cousin happen to sing ? Sisters we've all by the dozen, Tom,
But a Cousin's a different thing ;
(But let this be a secret between us,)
For they're not of the Sister genus.
There is something, Tom, in a Sister's lip,
When you give her a good-night kiss,
That savours so much of relationship
That nothing occurs amiss ;
With yours, in the quietest way,
You'll be dreaming the following day.
And people think it no harm, Tom,
With a Cousin to hear you talk; And no one feels any alarm, Tom,
At a quiet, cousinly walk ;But, Tom, you'll soon find what I happen to know,
That such walks often grow into straying, And the voices of Cousins are sometimes so low,
Heaven only knows what you'll be saying!
And then there happen so often, Tom,
Soft pressures of hands and fingers,
And tones on which memory lingers ;
Of your heart are all put in play,
In not quite the most brotherly way.
And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom,
Such tones as the angels woo,
You'll take her for an angel, too;
That you'll fancy the voice that gave it
Instead of the Psalms of David.
I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom,
And her name may be nameless now,
Though we are no longer so:
When there is not a leaf on the tree ;-
God forgive her ! the ruin of me.
And now I care nought for society, Tom,
And lead a most anchorite life,
And out of the wish for a wife;
So sad were the lesson 'twould give,
And from Cousins-as long as you live.
I SAW one day, near Paphos' bowers,
In a glass-sweet Fancy's own-
That circled Beauty's throne.
He looked so very sad ;-
But Pallas called him “mad.”
Flew out from some blue-bells,
“Pray, try our Bagatelles !
“You've pondered over those musty books
Till half your locks are grey ;-
And take your lute again,
And Love's repay the strain :
Philosophy to cells,-
So try our Bagatelles !
For every sort of ill,
Sweet flowers that never kill !
In mixing simples up,-
For the fevered lover's cup;
And star-drops in the dells;
Pray, try our Bagatelles !
“And youths from every court and clime
Come here to seek advice,
Are kept preserved-in ice !
And each has magic in it, -
Blue stockings every minute :