Let us dry the ready tear; Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weeping Till the sad sundown is near. All must sip the cup of sorrow, I to-day and thou to-morrow: This the close of every song— Ding dong! Ding dong! What though solemn shadows fall, Sooner, later, over all? Sing a merry madrigal— Fal la! THE DUKE AND THE DUCHESS THE DUKE. Small titles and orders For Mayors and Recorders I get—and they’re highly delighted. M.P.s baronetted, Sham Colonels gazetted, And second-rate Aldermen knighted. Foundation-stone laying I find very paying, It adds a large sum to my makings. At charity dinners The best of speech-spinners, I get ten per cent on the takings! THE DUCHESS. I present any lady Whose conduct is shady Or smacking of doubtful propriety; When Virtue would quash her I take and whitewash her And launch her in first-rate society. I recommend acres Of clumsy dressmakers— Their fit and their finishing touches; A sum in addition They pay for permission To say that they make for the Duchess! THE DUKE. Those pressing prevailers, The ready-made tailors, Quote me as their great double-barrel; I allow them to do so, Though ROBINSON CRUSOE Would jib at their wearing apparel! I sit, by selection, Upon the direction Of several Companies bubble; As soon as they’re floated I’m freely bank-noted— I’m pretty well paid for my trouble! THE DUCHESS. At middle-class party I play at _écarté_— And I’m by no means a beginner; To one of my station The remuneration— Five guineas a night and my dinner. I write letters blatant On medicines patent— And use any other you mustn’t; And vow my complexion Derives its perfection From somebody’s soap—which it doesn’t. THE DUKE. We’re ready as witness To any one’s fitness To fill any place or preferment; We’re often in waiting At junket _fêting_, And sometimes attend an interment. In short, if you’d kindle The spark of a swindle, Lure simpletons into your clutches, Or hoodwink a debtor, You cannot do better Than trot out a Duke or a Duchess! EHEU FUGACES—! THE air is charged with amatory numbers— Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers’ lays. Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers The aching memory of the old, old days?