The Project Gutenberg eBook of Collected Poems in Two Volumes, Vol. II
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Title: Collected Poems in Two Volumes, Vol. II
Author: Austin Dobson
Release date: January 17, 2008 [eBook #24334]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Leonard Johnson and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS IN TWO VOLUMES, VOL. II ***
Collected Poems
BY
AUSTIN DOBSON
IN TWO VOLUMES
Vol. II.
Majores majora sonent
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Publishers
By Dodd, Mead and Company
All rights reserved.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.
"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose
Words fitter for an old-world Muse
Than these, that in their cadence bring
Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,
And charms that rustic lovers use.
Words fitter for an old-world Muse
Than these, that in their cadence bring
Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,
And charms that rustic lovers use.
The long day lengthens, and we lose
The first pale flush, the morning hues,—
Ah! but the back-look, lingering,
For old sake's sake!
The first pale flush, the morning hues,—
Ah! but the back-look, lingering,
For old sake's sake!
That we retain. Though Time refuse
To lift the veil on forward views,
Despot in most, he is not King
Of those kind memories that cling
Around his travelled avenues
For old sake's sake!
To lift the veil on forward views,
Despot in most, he is not King
Of those kind memories that cling
Around his travelled avenues
For old sake's sake!
CONTENTS.
- Page
- At the Sign of the Lyre:—
- The Ladies of St. James's 3
- The Old Sedan Chair 6
- To an Intrusive Butterfly 9
- The Curé's Progress 11
- The Masque of the Months 13
- Two Sermons 17
- "Au Revoir" 19
- The Carver and the Caliph 26
- To an Unknown Bust in the British Museum 29
- Molly Trefusis 32
- At the Convent Gate 36
- The Milkmaid 38
- An Old Fish-Pond 40
- An Eastern Apologue 43
- To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century 45
- A Revolutionary Relic 48
- A Madrigal 54
- A Song to the Lute 56
- A Garden Song 58
- A Chapter of Froissart 60
- To the Mammoth Tortoise 64
- A Roman "Round-Robin" 66
- Verses to Order 68
- A Legacy 70
- "Little Blue Ribbons" 72
- Lines to a Stupid Picture 74
- A Fairy Tale 76
- To a Child 78
- Household Art 80
- The Distressed Poet 81
- Jocosa Lyra 83
- My Books 85
- The Book-Plate's Petition 87
- Palomydes 89
- André le Chapelain 91
- The Water of Gold 95
- A Fancy from Fontenelle 97
- Don Quixote 98
- A Broken Sword 99
- The Poet's Seat 101
- The Lost Elixir 104
- Memorial Verses:—
- A Dialogue (Alexander Pope) 107
- A Familiar Epistle (William Hogarth) 112
- Henry Fielding 115
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 119
- Charles George Gordon 120
- Victor Hugo 121
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson 122
- Fables of Literature and Art:—
- The Poet and the Critics 127
- The Toyman 130
- The Successful Author 133
- The Dilettant 136
- The Two Painters 138
- The Claims of the Muse 140
- The 'Squire at Vauxhall 144
- The Climacteric 149
- Tales in Rhyme:—
- The Virgin with the Bells 155
- A Tale of Polypheme 159
- A Story from a Dictionary 170
- The Water Cure 178
- The Noble Patron 184
- Vers de Société:—
- Incognita 193
- Dora versus Rose 197
- Ad Rosam 200
- Outward Bound 205
- In the Royal Academy 208
- The Last Despatch 213
- "Premiers Amours" 216
- The Screen in the Lumber Room 219
- Daisy's Valentines 221
- In Town 224
- A Sonnet in Dialogue 227
- Growing Gray 229
- Varia:—
- The Maltworm's Madrigal 233
- An April Pastoral 236
- A New Song of the Spring Gardens 237
- A Love Song, 1700 239
- Of his Mistress 240
- The Nameless Charm 242
- To Phidyle 243
- To his Book 244
- For a Copy of Herrick 246
- With a Volume of Verse 247
- For the Avery "Knickerbocker" 248
- To a Pastoral Poet 250
- "Sat est Scripsisse" 251
- Prologues and Epilogues:—
- Prologue and Envoi to Abbey's Edition of "She Stoops to Conquer" 257
- Prologue and Epilogue to Abbey's "Quiet Life" 264
- Notes 271
AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.
"At the Sign of the Lyre,"
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire,
And we hope to content you!
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire,
And we hope to content you!
Here be Ballad and Song,
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long—
May they all give you pleasure!
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long—
May they all give you pleasure!
But if, when you read,
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S.
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.
"Phyllida amo ante alias."
Virg.
Virg.
The ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds,
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true—and mine.
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds,
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true—and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.
"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?"
Bramston's "Art of Politicks."
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?"
Bramston's "Art of Politicks."
It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
It is battered and tattered,—it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,—under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
And yet—Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;"
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;"
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.
"Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way."
Five Rules of Buddha.
The meanest thing upon its upward way."
Five Rules of Buddha.
I watch you through the garden walks,
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
Across the room in loops of flight
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of "blind Mæonides"—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of "blind Mæonides"—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
You pause, you poise, you circle up
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
You wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
You wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
Away! Her thoughts are not as thine.
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One!
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One!
THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.
Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!"
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!"
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!"
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!"
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:—
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:—
THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS.
(FOR A FRESCO.)
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus,
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.
After thee thy dripping brother,
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.
Hark! for March thereto doth follow,
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter,
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.
May the jocund cometh after,
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.
June the next, with roses scented,
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.
Hot July thereafter rages,
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.
August next, with cider mellow,
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.
Laden deep with fruity cluster,
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover,
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.
TWO SERMONS.
Between the rail of woven brass,
That hides the "Strangers' Pew,"
I hear the gray-haired vicar pass
From Section One to Two.
That hides the "Strangers' Pew,"
I hear the gray-haired vicar pass
From Section One to Two.
And somewhere on my left I see—
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.
Ah, worthy Goodman,—sound divine!
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?
"AU REVOIR."
A Dramatic Vignette.
Scene.—The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders.
Monsieur Jolicœur.
A Lady (unknown).
A Lady (unknown).
M. Jolicœur.
'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:
A charming figure, above all!
This promises.—Ahem!
'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:
A charming figure, above all!
This promises.—Ahem!
The Lady.
Monsieur?
Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name
Is Jolicœur?...
Monsieur?
Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name
Is Jolicœur?...
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, the same.
Madame, the same.
M. Jolicœur.
Your note.
Your note.
The Lady.
Forgive me.—Nay.
(Reads)
"If Madame [I omit] will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Madame—possibly—may hear
News of her Spaniel. Jolicœur."
Monsieur denies his note?
Forgive me.—Nay.
(Reads)
"If Madame [I omit] will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Madame—possibly—may hear
News of her Spaniel. Jolicœur."
Monsieur denies his note?
M. Jolicœur.
I do.
Now let me read the one from you.
"If Monsieur Jolicœur will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet
An old Acquaintance. 'Indiscreet.'"
I do.
Now let me read the one from you.
"If Monsieur Jolicœur will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet
An old Acquaintance. 'Indiscreet.'"
The Lady (scandalized).
Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.
I never met Monsieur. And you?
Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.
I never met Monsieur. And you?
The Lady. (looking round).
I comprehend....
(After a pause.)
Monsieur, malicious brains combine
For your discomfiture, and mine.
Let us defeat that ill design.
If Monsieur but ... (hesitating).
I comprehend....
(After a pause.)
Monsieur, malicious brains combine
For your discomfiture, and mine.
Let us defeat that ill design.
If Monsieur but ... (hesitating).
M. Jolicœur (bowing).
Rely on me.
Rely on me.
The Lady (still hesitating).
Monsieur, I know, will understand ...
Monsieur, I know, will understand ...
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, I wait but your command.
Madame, I wait but your command.
The Lady.
You are too good. Then condescend
At once to be a new-found Friend!
You are too good. Then condescend
At once to be a new-found Friend!
M. Jolicœur (entering upon the part forthwith).
How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!
What ages since we met ... at Spa?
How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!
What ages since we met ... at Spa?
M. Jolicœur.
At Ems, of course. But Madame's face
Might make one well forget a place.
At Ems, of course. But Madame's face
Might make one well forget a place.
The Lady.
It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls
The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?
It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls
The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?
M. Jolicœur.
Assuredly. Though there again
'Tis Madame's image I retain.
Assuredly. Though there again
'Tis Madame's image I retain.
The Lady.
Monsieur is skilled in ... repartee.
(How do they take it?—Can you see?)
Monsieur is skilled in ... repartee.
(How do they take it?—Can you see?)
M. Jolicœur.
Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.
(They don't know what to make of it!)
Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.
(They don't know what to make of it!)
The Lady.
And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?...
That clever ... I forget the name.
And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?...
That clever ... I forget the name.
The Lady (archly).
Precisely. But, my carriage waits.
Monsieur will see me to the gates?
Precisely. But, my carriage waits.
Monsieur will see me to the gates?
M. Jolicœur (offering his arm).
I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem
Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.)
(Aside)
(Who is she? I must find that out.)
—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?
I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem
Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.)
(Aside)
(Who is she? I must find that out.)
—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?
The Lady (off her guard).
Monsieur de Beau—?... He died at Dôle!
Monsieur de Beau—?... He died at Dôle!
M. Jolicœur.
Truly. How sad!
(Aside)
(Yet, on the whole,
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of ... defeat.
Truly. How sad!
(Aside)
(Yet, on the whole,
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of ... defeat.
M. Jolicœur.
You flatter me. We need no skill
To act so nearly what we will.
Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate
And Madame bid me cultivate ...
You flatter me. We need no skill
To act so nearly what we will.
Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate
And Madame bid me cultivate ...
The Lady (anticipating).
Alas!—no farther than the gate.
Monsieur, besides, is too polite
To profit by a jest so slight.
Alas!—no farther than the gate.
Monsieur, besides, is too polite
To profit by a jest so slight.
M. Jolicœur.
Distinctly. Still, I did but glance
At possibilities ... of Chance.
Distinctly. Still, I did but glance
At possibilities ... of Chance.
The Lady.
Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,
Beyond the little grating here.
Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,
Beyond the little grating here.
M. Jolicœur (aside).
(She's perfect. One may push too far,
Piano, sano.)
(They reach the gates.)
Here we are.
Permit me, then ...
(Placing her in the carriage.)
And Madame goes?...
Your coachman?... Can I?...
(She's perfect. One may push too far,
Piano, sano.)
(They reach the gates.)
Here we are.
Permit me, then ...
(Placing her in the carriage.)
And Madame goes?...
Your coachman?... Can I?...
The Lady (smiling).
Thanks! he knows.
Thanks! Thanks!
Thanks! he knows.
Thanks! Thanks!
M. Jolicœur (insidiously).
And shall we not renew
Our ... "Ems acquaintanceship?"
And shall we not renew
Our ... "Ems acquaintanceship?"
The Lady (still smiling).
Adieu!
My thanks instead!
Adieu!
My thanks instead!
M. Jolicœur (with pathos).
It is too hard!
(Laying his hand on the grating.)
To find one's Paradise is barred!!
It is too hard!
(Laying his hand on the grating.)
To find one's Paradise is barred!!
The Lady.
Nay.—"Virtue is her own Reward!"
[Exit.
Nay.—"Virtue is her own Reward!"
[Exit.