O Cruel One! How littel dost thou knowe How manye poetes with Unhappyenesse Thou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to blowe Like to yonge Buddes in theyre firste sappyenesse! Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe Great Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle, Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe, Fold up theyre strypëd leaves, and dye withalle. Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falle Because a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede,-- That els had growne soe fayre and eke soe talle To-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and sprede Its blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to rede In soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede! THE SWEETS OF YOUTH. “Sweets to the sweet--farewell.”--HAMLET. Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough-- All human children have a sweetish taste; I used to revel in a pie, or puff; Or tart--we all were _Tartars_ in our youth To meet with jam or jelly was good luck, All candies most complacently I crumped, A stick of liquorice was good to suck, And sugar was as often liked as lumped! On treacle’s “linkèd sweetness long drawn out,” Or honey I could feast like any fly; I thrilled when lollipops were hawked about; How pleased to compass hard-bake or bull’s-eye; How charmed if Fortune in my power cast Elecampane--but that campaign is past. TO HENRIETTA,[8] ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS. When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France. Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief, They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock. But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle. Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble! What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls In scraps of _Galignani_ they’ll screw up your little curls; And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.