And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion; I must confess I acted like A donkey upon that occasion. Here's news from Paternoster Row! How mad I was when first I learnt it: They would not take my Book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. And here a pile of notes, at last, With "love," and "dove," and "sever," "never,"-- Though hope, though passion may be past, Their perfume is as sweet as ever. A human heart should beat for two, Despite the scoffs of single scorners; And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners. See here a double violet-- Two locks of hair--a deal of scandal; I'll burn what only brings regret-- Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle. MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. Though slender walls our hearths divide, No word has passed from either side, Your days, red-lettered all, must glide Unvexed by labour: I've seen you weep, and could have wept; I've heard you sing, and may have slept; Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept, My charming neighbour! Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail The pup, once eloquent of tail? I wonder why your nightingale Is mute at sunset! Your puss, demure and pensive, seems Too fat to mouse. She much esteems Yon sunny wall--and sleeps and dreams Of mice she once ate. Our tastes agree. I doat upon Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn, And _Penseroso_. When sorely tempted to purloin Your _pieta_ of Marc Antoine, Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, Fair Virtuoso! At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, And whisper low, "She hides behind; Thou art not lonely." The tricksy sprite did erst assist At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst; Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed By light winds only. I miss the simple days of yore, When two long braids of hair you wore, And _chat botte_ was wondered o'er, In corner cosy. But gaze not back for tales like those: 'Tis all in order, I suppose, The Bud is now a blooming ROSE,-- A rosy posy! Indeed, farewell to bygone years; How wonderful the change appears-- For curates now and cavaliers In turn perplex you: The last are birds of feather gay, Who swear the first are birds of prey; I'd scare them all had I my way, But that might vex you. At times I've envied, it is true, That joyous hero, twenty-two, Who sent _bouquets_ and _billets-doux_, And wore a sabre. The rogue! how tenderly he wound His arm round one who never frowned; He loves you well. Now, is he bound To love _my_ neighbour?