Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me--to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. * * * * * Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule. Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the fool. * * * * * THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN. Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. * * * * * In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons! See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare; Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever? Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,-- Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies; He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? * * * * * Better thou wert dead before me--better, better, that I stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!