“fool that i was to let a baby face—

a full one—like a hunter’s—round and red—

ass that i am, to give her more a place

within this heart”—and here he struck his head.

“’sdeath are the almanack-compilers dead?

but no—’tis all an artifice—a trick,

some newer face—some dandy under-bred—

[pg 301]

well—be it so—of all the sex i’m sick!”

here juno wonder’d why she got a kick.

“‘the moon is full’—where’s her infernal scrawl?

‘and you are in my thought: that silver ray

will ever your dear image thus recall’—

my image? mine! she’d barter it away

for pretty poll’s on an italian’s tray!

three weeks, full weeks,—it is too plain—too bad—

too gross and palpable! oh cursed day!

my senses have not crazed—but if they had—

such moons would worry a mad doctor mad!

“oh nature! wherefore did you frame a lip

so fair for falsehood? wherefore have you drest

deceit so angel-like?” with sudden rip

he tore six new buff buttons from his vest

and groped with hand impetuous at his breast,

as if some flea from juno’s fleecy curls

had skipp’d to batten on a human chest,

but no—the hand comes forth, and down it hurls

a lady’s miniature beset with pearls.

yet long upon the floor it did not tarry,

before another outrage could be plann’d:

poor juno, who had learn’d to fetch and carry,

pick’d up and brought it to her master’s hand,

who seized it, and the mimic feature scann’d;

yet not with the old loving ardent drouth,

he only saw in that fair face, so bland,

look how he would at it, east, west, north, south.

a moon, a full one, with eyes, nose, and mouth.

“i’ll go to her,”—herewith his hat he touch’d,

and gave his arm a most heroic brandish;

[pg 302]

“but no—i’ll write”—and here a spoon he clutch’d,

and ramm’d it with such fury in the standish,

a sable flood, like niger the outlandish,

came rushing forth—oh antics and buffoons!

ye never danced a caper so ran-dan-dish;

he jump’d, thump’d—tore—swore, more than ten dragoons,

at all nights, noons, moons, spoons, and pantaloons!

but soon ashamed, or weary, of such dancing,

without a collinet’s or weippert’s band,

his rampant arms and legs left off their prancing,

and down he sat again, with pen in hand,

not fiddle-headed, or king’s-pattern grand,

but one of bramah’s patent caligraphics;

and many a sheet it spoil’d before he plann’d

a likely letter. used to pure seraphics,

philippics sounded strangely after sapphics.

long while he rock’d like yankee in his chair,

staring as he would stare the wainscot through,

and then he thrust his fingers in his hair,

and set his crest up like a cockatoo;

and trampled with his hoofs, a mere yahoo:

at last with many a tragic frown and start,

he penn’d a billet, very far from doux,

’twas sour, severe—but think of a man’s smart

writing with lunar caustic on his heart!

the letter done and closed, he lit his taper,

and sealing, as it were, his other mocks,

he stamped a grave device upon the paper,

no cupid toying with his psyche’s locks,

but some stern head of the old stoic stocks—

then, fiercely striding through the staring streets,

he dropt the bitter missive in a box,

[pg 303]

beneath the cakes and tarts, and sugar’d treats,

in mrs. smelling’s window full of sweets.