Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, So tricksy, it were wrong to let her Rest satisfied with what she thinks Is perfect: try and teach her better. And if you only use, perchance, One half the pains to learn that we, Sir, Still use to hide our ignorance-- How very clever you will be, Sir! NOTES. NOTE TO "A HUMAN SKULL." "In our last month's Magazine you may remember there were some verses about a portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how the poet and present proprietor of the human skull at once settled the sex of it, and determined off-hand that it must have belonged to a woman? Such skulls are locked up in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you know, had a whole museum of them--as that imprudent little last wife of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a lady, we suppose, would select hers of the sort which had carried beards when in the flesh."--_The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World. Cornhill Magazine, January, 1861._ NOTE TO "AN INVITATION TO ROME." "He never sends a letter to her, but he begins a new one on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind little hand as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him, and longing for him far away in Dublin yonder."--_English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century._ NOTE TO "TO MY MISTRESS." "M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem, by Corneille, addressed to a young lady who had not been quite civil to him. He says with truth--'Le sujet est leger, le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierte de l'homme, et aussi l'ampleur du tragique.' The verses are probably new to our readers. They are well worth reading:-- Marquise, si mon visage A quelques traits un peu vieux, Souvenez-vous, qu'a mon age Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux. Le temps aux plus belles choses Se plait a faire un affront, Et saura faner vos roses Comme il a ride mon front. Le meme cours des planetes Regle nos jours et nos nuits; On m'a vu ce que vous etes, Vous serez ce que je suis. Cependant j'ai quelques charmes Qui sont assez eclatants Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes De ces ravages du temps. Vous en avez qu'on adore, Mais ceux que vous meprisez Pourraient bien durer encore Quand ceux-la seront uses. Ils pourront sauver la gloire Des yeux qui me semblent doux, Et dans mille ans faire croire Ce qu'il me plaira de vous. Chez cette race nouvelle Ou j'aurai quelque credit, Vous ne passerez pour belle Qu'autant que je l'aurai dit. Pensez-y, belle Marquise, Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, Il vaut qu'on le courtise Quand il est fait comme moi. The last four stanzas in particular are brimful of spirit, and the mixture of pride and vanity which they display is so remarkable that it seems impossible that it should have ever occurred in more than one person."--_Saturday Review, July 23rd, 1864._