Their eyes are not sloes, Nor so long is their nose, But between me and you, between me and you, They are just as alarming, And ten times more charming, With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue. They don’t ogle a man, O’er the top of their fan Till his heart’s in a flame, till his heart’s in a flame But though bashful and shy, They’ve a look in their eye That just comes to the same, just comes to the same. No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, And a leg--but, O murther! I dare not go further; So here’s to the west, so here’s to the west. “Now that really is a sweet little thing. Moore’s isn’t it?” “Not a bit of it; my own muse, every word of it.” “And the music?” said I. “My own, too. Too much spice in that bowl; that’s an invariable error in your devisers of drink, to suppose that the tipple you start with can please your palate to the last; they forget that as we advance, either in years or lush, our tastes simplify.” “_Nous revenons à nos premières amours_. Isn’t that it?” “No, not exactly, for we go even further; for if you mark the progression of a sensible man’s fluids, you’ll find what an emblem of life it presents to you. What is his initiatory glass of ‘Chablis’ that he throws down with his oysters but the budding expectancy of boyhood,--the appetizing sense of pleasure to come; then follows the sherry with his soup, that warming glow which strength and vigor in all their consciousness impart, as a glimpse of life is opening before him. Then youth succeeds--buoyant, wild, tempestuous youth--foaming and sparkling like the bright champagne whose stormy surface subsides into a myriad of bright stars.” “_Oeil de perdrix_.” “Not a bit of it; woman’s own eye, brilliant, sparkling, life-giving--” “Devil take the fellow, he’s getting poetical!” “Ah, Fred! if that could only last; but one must come to the burgundies with his maturer years. Your first glass of hermitage is the algebraic sign for five-and-thirty,--the glorious burst is over; the pace is still good, to be sure, but the great enthusiasm is past. You can afford to look forward, but confound it, you’ve along way to look back also.” “I say, Charley, our friend has contrived to finish the bishop during his disquisition; the bowl’s quite empty.” “You don’t say so, Fred. To be sure, how a man does forget himself in abstract speculations; but let us have a little more, I’ve not concluded my homily.” “Not a glass, Maurice; it’s already past nine. We are all pledged to the masquerade, and before we’ve dressed and got there, ‘t will be late enough.” “But I’m not disguised yet, my boy, nor half.” “Well, they must take you _au naturel_, as our countrymen do their potatoes.” “Yes, Doctor, Fred’s right; we had better start.”