When hearts are trumps Part 13

_(Enter Shade of Ophelia_.)

_S. of O._: Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o' grief Thy madness ne'er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean.

Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart.

Oh, I would get me to a nunnery.

_S of H._: Let me Ophelyour pulse.

Mad--quite mad; and all because A creature whom these mortals call a Miss, Quite properly, as her efforts are amiss, Would fain portray thee. Soft you, now!

O fair Ophelia. Nymph in thine orisons Be all her sins remembered.

Why let the stricken deer go weep, The untrained amateur play?

All those that watch must surely weep.

So wise men stay away.

(_Flickering blue lights and curtain_.)

The Abused Gallant.

Two lovely maidens (woe is me!) Play tennis with my heart; And each is wondrous fair to see, And each is wondrous smart.

In learning, money, beauty, birth, None can surpa.s.s them--none.

But each receives my "court" with mirth, And tells the other one.

My "court"! The term is fitly used-- A tennis court, you see.

And I know well I am abused, By the "racket" they give me.

Maud strikes my heart a brutal blow, And Mabel cries out, "Fault!"

And back and forth I undergo A feminine a.s.sault.

Maud asks my age. Alas! I hear Sweet Mabel say, "The goose Is very nearly forty, dear."

Maud answers, "Oh, 'the deuce'!"

And so my poor heart with their wit Is volleyed oft and oft, Till Mabel cries, while holding it, "This heart is far too soft."

And firing it into the net, She says, with girlish vim, "Although he isn't in our 'set,'

We're making 'game' of him."

And making game they are, I swear By all the saints above, With all the terms of tennis there Save but the sweetest, "love."

After the Ball.

A last word in the vestibule, A touch of taper fingers, A scent of roses, sweet and cool, When she has gone still lingers.

He pauses at the carriage door To sigh a bit and ponder He thinks the matter o'er and o'er, And all his senses wander.

With mantle thrown aside in haste, Her heart a bit uncertain, And neither time nor love to waste, She watches through the curtain.

And she has played him well, he knows Nor has he dared to stop her.

She wonders when he will propose; He wonders how he'll drop her.

Vanity Fair.

Oh, whence, oh, where Is Vanity Fair?

I want to be seen with the somebodies there.

I've money and beauty and college-bred brains; Though my 'scutcheon's not spotless, who'll mind a few stains?

To caper I wish in the chorus of style, And wed an aristocrat after a while So please tell me truly, and please tell me fair, Just how many miles it's from Madison Square.

It's here, it's there, Is Vanity Fair.

It's not like a labyrinth, not like a lair.

It's North and it's South, and it's East and it's West; You can see it, oh, anywhere, quite at its best.

Dame Fashion is queen, Ready Money is king, You can join it, provided you don't know a thing.

It's miles over here, and it's miles over there; And it's not seven inches from Madison Square.

For the Long Voyage.

"Were I a captain bold," I said, And gently clasped her hand, "Wouldst sail with me, by fancy led, To every foreign strand?

"Wouldst help me furl my silver sail, And be my trusty crew?

Wouldst stand by in the midnight gale, My pilot tried and true?"

"Well, no," she answered, blushing red, "Such heavy work I hate.

But,"--listen what the maiden said,-- "I would be your first mate."