E said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank and gold;
He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?
You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!
Bon Gaultier Ballads.
OLTAIRE was a very good Jesus Christ—for the French.
Charles Lamb, apud Leigh Hunt.
ON A THEATRICAL NUISANCE:
ERCHED in a box which cost her not a sou,
Giglina chatters all the evening through,
Fidgets with opera-glass, and flowers, and shawls,
Annoys the actors, irritates the stalls.
Forgive her harmless pride—the cause is plain—
She wants us all to know she's had champagne.