"Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place, Out of the market din and clatter, The quack with his puckered persuasive face Patters away in the ancient patter. "Buy,--who'll buy? In this flask I hold-- In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir-- Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,-- The One, Original, True Elixir! "Buy--who'll buy? There's a maiden there,-- She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,-- Here is a draught that will make you fair, Fit for an emperor's own caresses! "Buy,--who'll buy? Are you old and gray? Drink but of this, and in less than a minute, Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May, Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet! "Buy,--who'll buy? Is a baby ill? Drop but a drop of this in his throttle, Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill, Brisk as a burgher over a bottle! "Here is wealth for your life,--if you will but ask; Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion; Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask; And the price is a couple of silver groschen! "Buy,--who'll buy?" So the tale runs on: And still in the great world's market-places The Quack, with his quack catholicon, Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces; For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum, On our vague regret, on our weary yearning; For he sells the thing that never can come, Or the thing that has vanished, past returning. A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE. "_De memoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier._" The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by-- "He is old,--so old! And he soon must die!" The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread-- "He is older now! He will soon be dead!" But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And he raked them gently under the mould. _And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time._ DON QUIXOTE.