THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

4749

FROM

At least on a practical plan

To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.

But no case that I ever yet met is

Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers

Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints —

Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;

Miss Do., perpendicular saints.

In short, to distinguish is folly;

'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled

For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet

To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it

The legend, "To Rose."

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter

Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding

To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?

For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);

For Dora I'd willingly stem a

(Whatever might offer to stem);

But to make the invidious election,

To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,—a grain,— more affection, I cannot decide.

And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive

By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.

(AFTER-THOUGHT)

But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,

Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,—

And flight- in the main-is the best,That I might . . . But no matter,- the sequel Is easily guessed.

4751

4752

UNE MARQUISE

A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE

"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour.»

As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your "beaux yeux» flash and glow;-
Ah, you used them on the Painter,

As you know,

For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,

Bowing low,

Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,-

Or at least he told you so;-
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,

Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,

Do we love you most, or like you,
"Belle Marquise!»

II

You are fair; oh yes, we know it

Well, Marquise;

For he swore it, your last poet,

On his knees;

And he called all heaven to witness

Of his ballad and its fitness,

"Belle Marquise!"

You were everything in ère
(With exception of sévère).--