A CRY FOR GUIDANCE.
(In a weekly paper, a correspondent—presumably in the first raptures—recommends falling in love as a cure for all worries.)
It is all very well to go talking like that,
But tell me, pray, how does one do it?
How feel at the sight of a hobble or hat
A passionate impulse to woo it?
I'm eager enough of my woes to be rid,
But Cupid needs help in the placing
Of shafts in a heart that's apparently hid
'Neath a tough pachydermatous casing.
I have mingled with maidens—the tender, the hard,
The coy and the clinging—in legions;
But none has contrived to inflict on the bard
A jolt in the cardiac regions;
Must I turn for assistance to science or art,
Or put my predicament meekly
To "Mona" who handles affairs of the heart
In Sensitive Simperings (weekly)?
Your wonderful cure, my beneficent lad,
For me, who am ready to try it,
Is robbed of its worth by your failure to add
A hint as to how they supply it.
So nice a prescription I'm anxious to trust;
'Tis milder than pills or emulsion;
But I can't fall in love; I require to be thrust,
And you ought to supply the propulsion.