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Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
SOME people hang portraits up
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
Asks,“ Who was the lady, I wonder?”. “ 'Tis a daub John bought at a sale,"
Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder:
And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
“But my master's, the Tipton Slasher".
And prints-Rarey drumming on Cruiser,
And the little edition of Rabelais:
May saunter up close to examine it,
And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, “But the eyes are half out of their sockets; “That hair 's not so bad, where the gloss is, “But they've made the girl's nose a proboscis: “Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy! “What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?"
All that I own is a print,
Of a certain face, I never
Just an etching, and, so far, clever.
I keep my prints, an imbroglio,
Chuckle o'er increase of salary,
And the National Portrait G lery:
And the debt of wonder my crony owes
Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me—"Festina lentè! “What's that sweet thing there, the etching?" How my waistcoat-strings want stretching,
How my cheeks grow red as tomatos, How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache.
"By the by, you must take, for a keepsake,
“That other, you praised, of Volpato's."
MR SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM”
This was the first and only time, I'll swear,-
Go tell, then! Who the devil cares What such a rowdy chooses to ...
Aie-aie-aie! Please, sir! your thumbs are through my wind-pipe, sir! Ch-ch!
Well, sir, I hope you've done it now! Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday, When your departed mother spoke those words Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, You gave me—(very kind it was of you) These shirt-studs—(better take them back again, Please, sir)-yes, little did I think so soon A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends Into an angry gentleman!
Though, 'twas wrong. I don't contest the point; your anger 's just: Whatever put such folly in my head, I know 'twas wicked of me. There's a thick Dusk undeveloped spirit (I've observed) Owes me a grudge-a negro's, I should say, Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir, When we had summoned Franklin to clear up A point about those shares i' the telegraph: Ay, and he swore ... or might it be Tom Paine?... Thumping the table close by where I crouched, He'd do me soon a mischief: that's come true! Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would! Then, this one time ... don't take your hand away, Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand .. You ʼll promise to forgive me?-or, at least, Tell nobody of this ? Consider, sir ! What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe A rap or tip! What bit of paper's here? Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, Make the least sign, she urges on her child Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'Twas your foot,