Awful cynicle lot! Scarcely one a believer In _me_, it would seem, since that there Grand Old Screever To my hands has turned his pitch over. There! I've touched up the lightning, and now I am ready! But, though I must look bright, expectant, and steady, I don't feel percisely in clover! [_Left waiting for patronage._ [Illustration: "PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"] * * * * * THE DECADENT LOVER OF FICTION. "One love, one life," was my ancient manner, For introspection I had no brain, But I would have died beneath her banner, Or I would have lived, her grace to gain. I loved her silent, I loved her sprightly, With Grecian braid or with glossy curl; I loved her wrongly, I loved her rightly, But ever I loved a single girl. But now with _ennui_ my love is laden Before it really has quite begun; If I win the heart of any maiden It makes me prefer another one. Dim passions stir me, deflections fleeting; I feel myself in a hopeless whirl. There never are less than six competing. Why can I not love a single girl? Contented I and my love were mated In those brave days when we both were young. For marriage I'm now too complicated, Too many-natured, too finely-strung. My spreading canvas all zephyrs vary For one calm funnel how can I furl? In truth, the statute is somewhat chary. And old, and grey, grows the dearest girl! Oh, love that was loyal, losing, winning, That time and change had no power to quell, That once could even dispense with sinning, And that possession could not dispel! Your day is done, and your star's declining, The hero was but a brainless churl Who ever dreamed that without repining His whole life long he could love _one_ girl! And yet, I feel there is something wanting. The knowledge that love is sure to die To every lover is disenchanting. I would I loved as in days gone by. 'Twas braver folly the height to capture, Though down from the height Fate often hurls. He misses woe, but he misses rapture, Who falls in love with too many girls! * * * * * SITTING OUT. In throbbing silence my glances stray O'er her unreciprocal face, And I haven't a notion what to say Now I've finished with commonplace. How I hate the slope of that cheerless chin, And the stare of those vacant eyes, That take the commonest objects in With placid and cool surprise. And I sit in a calm that she will not break, A desert that is not peace, And ever and ever the windows shake To a dance that will never cease. I cannot join the rout again, I am far too weary and warm. So I needs must suffer this speechless pain, In a draught, on the red baize form. There is one remark--it has proved a key Already to one long chat, Of course--I'll start it, for even she Must answer awhile to that.