How "H.R.H."--_n'importe!_ my friend
Experience shows me that the _laches_
Of such as air these letters tend
In the direction of their "H"'s.
He chatted next of German Spas,
Of Continental, English "P.B.'s,"
And how our matchmaking Mammas
Are scared by Transatlantic Hebes,
How he with Royalties had graced
The latest function--genial patrons--
While Beauty, perched on barrows, raced
Before the virtuous British matrons.
And then his compliments began
To rain like drops of Frangipanni,
A most insinuating man
He was, this ancient DON GIOVANNI.
You felt, if you could half believe,
You'd but to word a whim to find it,
You quite forgot he owned a sleeve,
And several teeth to laugh behind it.
There may be kindness, lofty souls,
Great Brains, and whatso ne'er grows older,
_Him_ the Material controls:
He shrugs a sleek, good-natured shoulder.
Time scatters dalliance, joy, and joke;
Your choicest vintage passes; e'en your
Supreme tobacco ends in smoke--
And so will poor DON JUAN, Senior.
* * * * *
MRS. MALAPROP is much puzzled at the announcement that it is proposed
to construct a new Tubercular Railway between England and France.
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