The place amused her for a bit,
(Some think ’twas half a day)
Then came, alas! a desperate fit
Of neurasthenia.
She tired of lions bland and grand,
She tired of thornless roses,
She felt she could no longer stand
Her Adam’s courtly glozes.
His “graceful consort,” “spouse adored,”
His amorous-pious lectures;
She found herself supremely bored,
If one may risk conjectures.
“Would he but scold for once!” sighed she,
“De haut en bas caressings,
Qualified by astronomy,
Prove scarce unmingled blessings.”
She strolled; fine gentlemen in wings
Would deftly light and stop her;
She looked demure; half-missed her “things,”
Half feared ’twas not quite proper.
They asked for Adam, always him,
Each affable Archangel,
Nor heeded charms of neck or limb,
Big with their stale evangel.
They dined; her cookery instinct stirred;
A dinner grew a dream,
Not berries cold, eternal curd,
And everlasting cream.
Boon fruit was hers, but tame in sooth;
One thought her soul would grapple—
To get her little ivory tooth
Deep in some wicked apple.
So, when that sinuous cavalier
Spired near the tree of evil,
The woman hasted to draw near;
Such luck!—the genuine devil!
And Satan, who to man had lied,
Man ever prone to palter,
The franker course with woman tried,
Assured she would not falter.