THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

Woman's world's a stage,

And modern women will be ill-cast players;

They'll have new exits and strange entrances,

And one She will play many mannish parts,

And these her Seven Ages. First the infant

"Grinding" and "sapping" in its mother's arms,

And then the pinched High-School girl, with packed satchel,

And worn anæmic face, creeping like cripple

Short-sightedly to school. Then the "free-lover,"

Mouthing out IBSEN, or some cynic ballad

Made against matrimony. Then a spouter,

Full of long words and windy; a wire-puller,

Jealous of office, fond of platform-posing,

Seeking that bubble She-enfranchisement

E'en with abusive mouth. Then County-Councillor,

Her meagre bosom shrunk and harshly lined,

Full of "land-laws" and "unearned increment";

Or playing M.P. part. The sixth age shifts

Into the withered sour She-pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and "Gamp" at side,

Her azure hose, well-darned, a world too wide

For her shrunk shanks; her once sweet woman's voice,

Verjuiced to Virgin-vinegarishness,

Grates harshly in its sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange new-fangled history,

Is sheer unwomanliness, mere sex-negation—

Sans love, sans charm, sans grace, sans everything.