Some years ago a French speculator found himself ruined by a sudden collapse in the stock-market. He resolved to commit suicide, but, as he was a connoisseur in monumental literature, he decided first to compose his own epitaph. The first line—a very fine one—terminated with the word triomphe. To this, search as he might, he could find no rhyme, and he could not bring himself to sacrifice his beloved line. Time passed, finding him still in search of his rhyme, assisted by a number of benevolent friends, but all in vain. One day a promising speculation presented itself: he seized the opportunity and regained his fortune.
The rhyme so zealously sought has at length been found, and the epitaph completed. Here it is:—
Attendre que de soi la vétusté triomphe,
C’est absurde! Je vais au devant de la mort.
Mourir a plus d’attraits quand on est jeune encore:
A quoi bon devenir un vieillard monogomphe?
Monogomphe; a brilliant Hellenism signifying “who has but a single tooth.”
To get a rhyme in English for the word month was quite a matter of interest with curious people years ago, and somebody made it out or forced it by making a quatrain, in which a lisping little girl is described as saying:—
——I can get a rhyme for a month.