Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 1, 1890

E-text prepared by V. L. Simpson, Malcolm Farmer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

Très volontiers, repartit le démon. Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter. Le Diable Boiteux.
XVIII.
'Mrs. Mæcenas!' So some would-be wit Dubbed the fair dame. The title may not fit With accurate completeness; It soars some shades too high, this modish mot , As 'Mrs. Lyon-Hunter' sinks too low; Both nick-names fail in neatness.
The ' acu tetigisti ,' tribute rare, Not oft is earned, in Fleet Street or Mayfair, In these hot days of hurry. Salons , Symposia, both have met their doom, And wit, in the Victorian drawing-room, Finds a fell foe in flurry.
So spake the Shadow, with the covert sneer That struck so coldly on the listening ear. Soft was his speech, as muffled By some chill atmosphere surcharged with snow, In unemphatic accents, level, low, Unhasting and unruffled.
Mrs. Mæcenas, then, no Horace finds In all her muster of superior minds, Her host of instant heroes? That's hard! I said. She does not greatly care, My guide rejoined. Behold her seated there! Her court's as full as Nero's.
Seneca stands beside her. He's a prim, Sententious sage. If she is bored by him, The lady doth not show it. But there's a furtive glancing of her eye Toward the entry. There comes Marx M'Kay, The Socialistic Poet.
His lyric theories mean utter smash To all his hostess cares for. Crude and rash, But musically 'precious.' His passionate philippics against Wealth Mammon's own daughters read, 'tis said, by stealth, And vote them 'quite delicious!'
All that makes life worth living to the throng Of worshippers who mob this Son of Song, Money, Monopoly, Merriment, He bans and blazes at in 'Diræ' dread; But then they know his Muse is merely Red In metrical experiment.
Well-dressed and well-to-do, the flaming Bard Finds life in theory only harsh and hard. His chevelure looks shaggy, But his black broad-cloth's glossy and well-brushed, And he'd feel wretched if his tie were crushed, His trousers slightly baggy.