My seventh cup of tea was done,
My seventh glass of wine begun,
Then of her coming
I was aware, nor shall forget
How she and that brown sherry set
My brains a-humming;
Well should I be rewarded soon
For all the weary afternoon.
Her eyes looked vaguely into mine
Without as much as half a sign
Of recognition.
My heart, my heart! the blow was sore,
But you have often been before
In this condition;
As said the bard of old, those eyes
Are not my only Paradise.[G]
[F] Inns of Court Rifle Volunteers.
[G] Dante, Par. xviii. 21.
The Spinning-House of the Future
"Cada puta hile."—Don Quixote, i. 46.
Without my dinner here I lie,
And all because that proctor
With her stout bull-dogs passed, and I
Mocked her.
For Clara is at Girton too,
That dragon is her tutor,
I threatened once what I would do,
Shoot her.