For when very old folk feel love's smart,
Cupid's arrow by Death surely missioned must be;
But when youth in its loveliness sinks to decay,
Death's quiver doth furnish the dart.
Here was a startling resemblance, with a vengeance; in spite of my new-fledged confidence, and the unmistakably excellent opinion I entertained of number one, I began to feel somewhat nervous.
"How do you like it?" said Rory, evidently nettled at my inattention.
"I don't like it all."
"Eh!"
"I don't mean that; I mean—the poetry is superb—lovely—but"——
"But what? you are laboring to give vent to something, evidently—out with it, man," Rory continued, moodily.