There was a time when idle tales Could set your heart aflame; But now the novel nought avails, Philosophy's your game. You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest, And pessimistic teaching; Believe me that I loved you best Before you took to preaching. There's still some loveliness in life, Despite what cynics say; It is not all ignoble strife, That greets us on our way. Then prithee smooth that pretty brow, So exquisitely knitted; Mankind in general, I trow, Can do without being pitied. We'll linger over fans and frills, Discuss dress bit by bit, As in days when the worst of ills Were frocks that would not fit. 'Twas frivolous, but I'm content To hear you talk at random; For life is not all argument, And "_Quod est demonstrandum_." You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang, To be yourself once more, To let philosophy go hang, With every Buddhist bore. "_Pro aris_," like a Volunteer, A girl should be, "_et focis_;" Supposing then you try, my dear, A new metempsychosis. * * * * * A COMPLICATED CASE.--The careless little boy who caught a cold from his cousin, caught it hot from his mother afterwards. * * * * * VENICE IN LONDON. (_BY A MOSQUITO "OUT OF IT."_) [Illustration] Oh, it's all very fine, Mr. IMRE KARALFY, Thus to blazon your "Venice in London" around, To portray the Piazzetta for 'ARRY and ALFY, But dispense with my tintinnabulary sound. Ask the Tourist if, reft of my wee fellow-creatures, On the face of the waters (and watermen) blown, He can honestly recognise Venice's features In their miniature--or, for that matter, _his own_. Ever watchful, we guard, Messrs. ALFY and 'ARRY, With our trumpet and spear for the Doges, their mute, Opalescent, profanity-proof sanctuary, And we swell the lagoon--and lagoonster, to boot. Stare away at this pageant of eld--ever new 'tis,-- In the glimmering gondolas loll, if you like; But I'll warrant one eye would be closed to their beauties, Could I only escape for a second on strike. Could I quiver concealed by yon mimic Rialto, Till I swooped with a warrior's music and swing, Were I only allowed, as I ought, and I shall, to Be avenged on your barbarous hordes with my sting. I would tilt at the fogs that mock Italy's glory, I would pounce on the rabble--an insolent fry;-- With my forefathers' motto, "_Pro Patria mori_," I'd annihilate ALFY and 'ARRY--and die! * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. [Illustration]