FROM A.....N S......E.
Sick of the perfume of praise, and faint with the fervid caresses,
Flushing his face with a flame that is fair, like the blood on a dove;
Weary of pangs that have pleased him, the poet refrains and confesses—
Shrinks from the rapture of death, and the lips and the languors of love;
The rootless rose of delight, and the love that lasts only to blossom,
Blossom and die without fruit, as the kisses that feed and not fill;
Famishing pleasure, dry-lipped, with the sting and the stain on her bosom,
And all of a sin that is good, and all of a good that is ill!
(This explicit language of Mr. S......E'S will, we are sure, be satisfactory to all our readers. No explanation could make his reply clearer and more readily intelligible.—ED. Fun.)