PERILS OF THE FINE ARTS.
OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl,
What horror do I see?
What frantic fiend has done the
deed
That rends your charms from
me?
Those matchless charms which like
the sun
Lit up Belinda Place—
What fiend, I ask, in human mask
Has dared to black your face?
Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose
Are both of ebon hue;
Your chin is green—your lips are brown—
Your nose is prussian blue!
This mom the very driven snow
Was not so stainless pure,—
And now, alack! you're more a black,
Than any black-a-more.
Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove,
That I could clutch his throat!—
That I could give his ears a cuff,
Who gave your face a coat:
If there is justice in the land—
But no:—the law is bosh:
Altho' it's tme you're black and blue
That remedy "won't wash."
Revenge, I say!—yet hold, no rage—
I will be calm, sweet wife—
Calm—icy calm——————Speak, woman, speak,
That I may have his life!!
Who did the deed?—
"Oh! Charles,'twas you!
"Nay, dearest, do not shrink—
"This face and chin!—I've wash'd it in
"Your Photographic Ink!"
