Is thou art with me!”
Very right, Miss Violet—the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit, pleasing (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, and no harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty, and I can fancy, my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man’s face and saying it. But the capting!—oh, this capting!-this windy, spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies for the hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and his wishes to be a bee! Pish! Men don’t make love in this finniking way. It’s the part of a sentymentle, poeticle taylor, not a galliant gentleman, in command of one of her Madjisty’s vessels of war.
Take my advise, honrabble sir—listen to a humble footmin; it’s generally best in poatry to understand puffickly what you mean yourself, and to igspress your meaning clearly afterwoods—in the simpler words the better, praps. You may, for instans, call a coronet a coronal, if you like, as you might call a hat a “swart sombrero,” “a glossy four-and-nine,” “a silken helm, to storm impermeable, and lightsome as the breezy gossamer;” but, in the long run, it’s as well to call it a hat. It is a hat, and that name is quite as poetticle as another. I think it’s Playto, or els Harrystottle, who observes that what we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Confess, now, dear Barnet, don’t you long to call it a Polyanthus?
I never see a play more carelessly written. In such a hurry you seem to have bean, that you have actually in some sentences forgot to put in the sence. What is this, for instance?
“Girl beware,
“The Love that trifles round the charms it gilds Oft ruins while it shines.”
Igsplain this, men and angels! I’ve tried every way; backards, forards, and in all sorts of trancepositions, as thus:
‘The love that ruins round the charms it shines,
Gilds while it trifles oft;’
Or,