Adonis, sweet, hide not thy blushing face: What terrors masculine thy soul abash? And why with boyish pout dost mar the grace Of maiden lip and innocent moustache?
O you dry up! I tell you. I'll be cussed If I'm a-going to stand such pesky bother From you strong-minded gals. And, what's the wust, I darn't touch ye.--G'long, 'r I'll tell your mother!
And feel'st thou then no solemn intuition-- No subtle psychological vibration-- Or instant, full, spontaneous recognition Of my pantarchic self-annunciation?
For love is free, and mutual reaction Of kindred organisms airily Subsists and ceases, as 't gives satisfaction: We change with changes of affinity.
Now just look here, you don't sponge no love free At this here shop: it's stealing,--that's the sin it is! What's more, too, if you want to hang 'round _me_ You'd better just play light on them affinities!
DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Hailing (not to say reigning) from this august (and all the year round) place, I naturally feel privileged to pour my troubles into your ears, with doubts as to their length. [Length of what, troubles or ears?--ED.]
The fact is, no man was ever treated so badly or so seldom as I have been. Others have "waked up" and found themselves famous. I've practised waking for years, and never found myself in fame, or anything else, excepting energetic "tailors' bills," and an occasional square meal.
Thirsting for renown, I have coined my wealth of brains into one transcending effort, and amid much travail of genius, and travel of paw to pate, have produced the following
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which I dedicate to the late Political Convention, as embodying the principles there adopted, with this difference, that, while their Resolutions have no point, my resolution enables me to make two points in every line.
While I'm not in the proverb business, I have a couple on hand that are getting mouldy, so I send 'em along.
"Once go to grass, and your enemies will soon make a hey-day over you."