The charm-bestowing fount, from whence
Fate doth dispense
Its varied bounties to the fair,
The loveliest of whom but share
A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare.
It will scarcely be credited, that after that brilliant compliment to Polly's charms, the little jilt, her well-fortified heart not being assailable by Parnassian pellets, looked still colder upon the suffering perpetrator. However, the persevering nature of my passion—and, indeed, it was then a real one—was not to be set aside by rebuffs. Again and again I returned to the attack, and, pen in hand, racked my unfortunate brains through all the strategy of acrostics, birth-day odes, and sonnets. It was not until some time afterwards that I discovered the real reason of my ill-success. The writing of the "Lines" was, perhaps, a pardonable liberty, but printing them was atrocious; so that, in fact, my unworthy suppression of Rory's concoctions brought its own punishment—not that he was a bit more successful than I, for, as we soon became sensibly aware, the charming, but conscienceless little coquette had even more strings to her bow than she could conveniently fiddle with; indeed, that there wasn't a decent-looking boy in the academy that she didn't encourage, or seem to encourage, so generalizing was her flirtation system.
And, after all, to decline upon foxy Tom Gallagher, the more than middle-aged Dispensary doctor, a long, straggling, splay-footed disciple of Æsculapius, with a head of hair like a door-mat—that she has time and again watched and laughed her little ribs sore at, as he shuffled along the street. Ah! Polly O'Connor!
But, allow me to present to your notice Rory's poetical offering at her inexorable feet. It is, as you may perceive, ambitious, and, however I might have underrated its merits at one time, I now think it smacks somewhat of the old Elizabethan relish.
Judge for yourself:
Upon some sly affair