’Twas ANNIE, gentle ANNIE, as you’ll easily believe. “O GILBERT, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve, It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago, And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow. “I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, GILBERT CLAY, And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of PETER GRAY, I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand, For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand. “In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before), To lacerate poor PETER GRAY vindictively you swore; I told you if you used that blunted axe you’d rue the day, And so you will, young GILBERT, for I’ll marry PETER GRAY!” [_And so she did_. AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS I’VE painted SHAKESPEARE all my life— “An infant” (even then at “play”!) “A boy,” with stage-ambition rife, Then “Married to ANN HATHAWAY.” “The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”), His “First appearance on the stage,” His “Call before the curtain”—then “Rejoicings when he came of age.” The bard play-writing in his room, The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk. The bard a lawyer {287a}—parson {287b}—groom {287c}— The bard deer-stealing, after dark. The bard a tradesman {288a}—and a Jew {288b}— The bard a botanist {288c}—a beak {288d}— The bard a skilled musician {288e} too— A sheriff {288f} and a surgeon {288g} eke! Yet critics say (a friendly stock) That, though it’s evident I try, Yet even I can barely mock The glimmer of his wondrous eye! One morning as a work I framed, There passed a person, walking hard: “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed, “How very like my dear old bard! “Oh, what a model he would make!” I rushed outside—impulsive me!— “Forgive the liberty I take, But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he. “You needn’t waste your breath or time,— I know what you are going to say,— That you’re an artist, and that I’m Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh? “You wish that I would sit to you?” I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, “I do!” “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.” I led him by his hallowed sleeve, And worked away at him apace, I painted him till dewy eve,— There never was a nobler face! “Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand Is yours, by dint of merest chance,— To sport _his_ brow at second-hand, To wear _his_ cast-off countenance! “To rub _his_ eyes whene’er they ache— To wear _his_ baldness ere you’re old— To clean _his_ teeth when you awake— To blow _his_ nose when you’ve a cold!” His eyeballs glistened in his eyes— I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; “Bravo!” I said, “I recognize The phrensy of your prototype!”