Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel;
Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!"
'Tis the place (but rather older)—I was in my eighteenth year,
When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear!
How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime
Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for Time.
But his form was somewhat fatter than should be for one so young,
And his round eyes spoke the language of his glib and oily tongue.
In the spring the fleshly poet writes a sweet and soothing sonnet:
In the spring a wise young woman buys a more becoming bonnet.