“Maurice, you ought to give me your crown, so that myrtle and olive inspire me with the breath of the god.”
“‘King Pandion he is dead,’” rejoined Maurice lightly. “The gods inspire no songs to-day, nor would they be answerable for a mixture of the classic and romantic, such as your ‘Paris of Paris’ is bound to be.”
“Judge for yourself, Thersites,” retorted the poet; and, holding the sprig of myrtle in his hand, after a few moments’ thought, he began to sing in his pleasant voice the following words to a lively French air.
“Paris came to Helen when
Earth was younger;
He was handsomest of men,
She was fairest woman then;
And love’s hunger
Made them long to run away,
Which they did one pleasant day—