A FAIR PHILOSOPHER.
Ah! Chloris! be as simple still
As in the dear old days;
Don't prate of Matter and Free Will,
And IBSEN's nasty plays,
A girl should ne'er, it seems to me,
Have notions so pedantic;
'Twere better far once more to be
Impulsive and romantic.
There was a time when idle tales
Could set your heart aflame;
But now the novel nought avails,
Philosophy's your game.
You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest,
And pessimistic teaching;
Believe me that I loved you best
Before you took to preaching.
There's still some loveliness in life,
Despite what cynics say;
It is not all ignoble strife,
That greets us on our way.
Then prithee smooth that pretty brow,
So exquisitely knitted;
Mankind in general, I trow,
Can do without being pitied.
We'll linger over fans and frills,
Discuss dress bit by bit,
As in days when the worst of ills
Were frocks that would not fit.
'Twas frivolous, but I'm content
To hear you talk at random;
For life is not all argument,
And "Quod est demonstrandum."
You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang,
To be yourself once more,
To let philosophy go hang,
With every Buddhist bore.
"Pro aris," like a Volunteer,
A girl should be, "et focis;"
Supposing then you try, my dear,
A new metempsychosis.
A COMPLICATED CASE.—The careless little boy who caught a cold from his cousin, caught it hot from his mother afterwards.