SIDDONS AND HER MAID. W. S. LANDOR
SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast;
The herb of China is its crown at last.
Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear?
MAID. Yes, missus, yes.
SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here,
With penetrated, penetrating eyes.
MAID. Mine? missus! are they?
SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise,
Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.
MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!
SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led
Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?
MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I,
Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.
SIDDENS. Fond maiden!
MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam!
If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.
SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain
That Shakspeare's language germinates again.
THE SECRET SORROW. PUNCH
Oh! let me from the festive board
To thee, my mother, flee;
And be my secret sorrow shared
By thee—by only thee!
In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;
Let others seek enjoyment there,
To me 'tis only pain.
There WAS a word of kind advice—
A whisper soft and low,
But oh! that ONE resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?
No blame, no blame, my mother dear.
Do I impute to YOU,
But since I ate that currant tart
I don't know what to do!
SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS. AFTER SCHILLER. PUNCH.
Four be the elements,
Here we assemble 'em,
Each of man's world
And existence an emblem.
Press from the lemon
The slow flowing juices—
Bitter is life
In its lessons and uses.