Despite experience, what can set The widow hoping? Why are wives sometimes gadding met, And sometimes moping? Don't talk of widows' amorous bump, Of wives too free; But pop the question to them, plump-- Pray, who is he? We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on The weaker fair sex; When justice ought to fix the shame on Ours--not on their sex. Ours the seduction and the fooling, If such there be: Come; your exception to this ruling-- Pray, who is he? The old and hump-backed ply their battery Of gold and jewels; Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery, Dance, song, oaths, duels. So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir, Upon the Bible, That to blame one--in place of both, sir,-- Is a gross libel! TO NINON. _From the French of Alfred de Musset._ Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well, Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell? Love is the cause of many a pang--their source thou well can'st guess; No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess: And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless! Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed, Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed; Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye, That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy: "I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply. Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream, Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem; A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,-- Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance: And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance. Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word, That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard; Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain, Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain: And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!" Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee, And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee, Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware, In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear: Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold, Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold. I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale; And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail; Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.