"My Love has sicklied unto Loath, And foul seems all that fair I fancied-- The lily's sheen a leprous growth, The very buttercups are rancid!" _Archie Bearpark._ Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy! _Bertie Pilliner._ He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement." [_He reads._ "With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust, I lie all loathly in my rags and rust-- Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust." Now, do you know, I rather like that--it's so deliciously decadent! _Lady Rhoda._ I should call it utter rot, myself. _Bertie Pilliner_ (_blandly_). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but _not_ "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich." [_He reads._ "The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul!" _Archie Bearpark._ I should be inclined to back the toad, myself. _Miss Spelwane._ If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs? _Bertie Pilliner._ I'll look. Yes, any amount--here's one. (_He reads._) "To My Lady." "Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe, Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!" _Miss Spelwane_ (_interested_). So _that's_ his type. Does he mention whether she _did_ kiss him? _Bertie Pilliner._ Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he _does_ mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen. [_He reads._ "Uprears the monster now his slobberous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing." And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody! [_He reads._ "Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for _you_, dear Archie!) Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold the Sun-- Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness--done!" [_General hilarity, amidst which_ Lady CULVERIN _enters_. [Illustration: "NOW I'LL READ YOU A REGULAR ROUSER CALLED 'A TRUMPET BLAST.'"] _Lady Culverin._ So _glad_ you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?