(You'll observe, Bill, that rhyme's quite Parisian; a Londoner, sir,
would have cited old Q.
People tell me the French in my verses recalls that of Jeames or John
Thomas: I
Must maintain it's as good as the average accent of British diplomacy.)
These are moments that thrill the whole spirit with spasms that excite
and exalt.
I stood more than the peer of the great Casanova--you know--de Seingalt.
She was worth, sir, I say it without hesitation, two brace of her sisters.
Ah, why should all honey turn rhubarb--all cherries grow onions--all
kisses leave blisters?
Oh, and why should I ask myself questions? I've heard such before--once
or twice.
Ah, I can't understand it--but, O, I imagine it strikes me as nice.
There's a deity shapes us our ends, sir, rough-hew them, my boy, how
we will--
As I stated myself in a poem I published last year, you know, Bill--
Where I mentioned that that was the question--to be, or, by Jove, not
to be.
Ah, it's something--you'll think so hereafter--to wait on a poet like me.
Had I written no more than those verses on that Countess I used to
call Pussy--
Yes, Minette or Manon--and--you'll hardly believe it--she said they
were all out of Musset.
Now I don't say they weren't--but what then? and I don't say they
were--I'll bet pounds against pennies on
The subject--I wish I may never die Laureate, if some of them weren't
out of Tennyson.
And I think--I don't like to be certain, with Death, so to speak, by
me, frowning--