Part 16 (1/2)
He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it; He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.
I pause ... and pa.s.s on--and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire.
As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe, Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, I half tumble over an ”object” unnerving-- So frightful a hag must be ”highly deserving.”
She begs--my heart's moved--but I've much circ.u.mspection; I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection That cases of vice are by no means a rarity-- The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.
Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guides Would settle this question--and others besides!
For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus, If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.
A few minutes later--how pleasant for me!-- I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea: Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, What cartloads of rubbish they send her from _Barry's_!
”There's a present for you!” Yes, my sweet Sophy's thrift Has enabled the darling to buy me a gift.
And she slips in my hand--the delightfully sly Thing-- A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing.
”What a charming _cadeau_! and,” says I, ”so well made; But are you aware, you extravagant jade, That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?”
”Pooh, pooh,” says my lady (I ought to defend her, Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender), ”Hopgarten protests they've no feeling--and so It was nothing but muscular movement, you know.”
Thinks I--when I've said _au revoir_, and depart-- (A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),-- And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notion That begging is only a muscular motion.
The Angora Cat
Good pastry is vended In Cite Fadette,-- Madame Pons constructs splendid _Brioche_ and _galette_!
Monsieur Pons is so fat that He's laid on the shelf,-- Madame Pons had a cat that Was fat as herself.
Long hair--soft as satin,-- A musical purr-- 'Gainst the window she'd flatten Her delicate fur.
Once I drove Lou to see what Our neighbours were at, When, in rapture, cried she, ”What An exquisite cat!
”What whiskers! She's purring All over. A gale Of contentment is stirring Her feathery tail.
”Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?”-- ”_Ma femme est sortie_, Your offer I'll tell her, But--will she?” says he.
Yet Pons was persuaded To part with the prize!
(Our bargain was aided, My Lou, by your eyes!)
From his _legitime_ save him-- My fate I prefer!
For I warrant she gave him _Un mauvais quart d'heure_.
I'm giving a pleasant Grimalkin to Lou, --Ah, Puss, what a present I'm giving to you!
ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE,
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.