PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Ah, why, my Love, receive me

With such tip-tilted scorn?

Self-love can scarce retrieve me

From obloquy forlorn;

'Twas not my fault, believe me,

That wealthy I was born.

Of Nature's gifts invidious

I'd choose I know not which;

One might as well be hideous

As shunn'd because he's rich.

O Love, if thou art bitter,

Then death must pleasant be;

I know not which is fitter,

Not I—(or is't "not me"?)

'Tis not that thou abhorrest,

Oh, maid of dainty mould!

The foison of the florist,

The goldsmith's craft of gold;

Nor less than others storest

Rare pelts by furriers sold;

But knowing I adore thee,

And deem all graces thine,

My choicest offerings bore

Just because they are mine.

Then, smile not, dear deceiver,

Keep no kind word for me,

Enough that the receiver

Is thou—(or is it "thee"?)

When others come, how trimly

Thou sett'st thy chatty sail!

For me alone all dimly

Seemeth the sun to fail.

Young Frank he frowneth grimly,

And thou turn'st haughty pale.

'Tis not the taint of "City,"

For here be scores who sport

Their Mayfair manners pretty

In Cop-the-Needle Court.

Ah, chill me not so coolly,

A Crœsus though I be—

The one who loveth truly

I swear is I—(or "me"?)

But what availeth grammar

As taught in straitest schools—

The hammer of the Crammer

Forging Bellona's tools—

Or words that humbly stammer

Regardless of the rules?

And what availeth fretting,

Deep sighs, and dwindling waist,

And what the sad forgetting

Of culinary taste,

Since still thou fondly spurnest

Five hundred thou. (or "thee."?)

And on young Stoney turnest

Love's eye—(or is it "me"?)