My aching bosom tear—
O bid them cease! nor, heartless, count
My gestures of despair.
Take all I have—the plaints, the tears
That hinder my repose,
The heart that’s faithful through the years;
But oh, give me the rose!’
A polite murmur ran through the room as Mr. Turner laid down his music.
‘I notice that our musical genius keeps his eyes fixed on one particular spot as he sings,’ observed an old gentleman at the whist-table, as he dealt the cards. ‘I wonder who the young puppy is staring at.’
‘If you had noticed that I threw away my seven of clubs, it would have been more to the purpose, and we might not have lost the trick,’ remarked the spinster who was his partner, acidly.