Then Phyllis sat upon the style
      Of men who would deride her;
    But she no longer sits the while
      With love and me beside her.

Afraid.

    Down the broad stairs,
      Stranger to cares,
    My love comes tripping and smiling and free;
      The snows on her breast
      Are a blush unconfessed. 
    I wonder what fate has in waiting for me?

      My heart seems to throb
      Like a broken-paced cob;
    I fear I’m a coward in love, as they say. 
      She’s commencing to laugh;
      How the fellows will chaff. 
    By Jove, I’m not going to ask her to-day.

Ye Retort Exasperating.

    “Sweete maide,” ye lovesicke youthe remarked,
      “Thou’rt fickle as my star! 
    By far ye worste I ever sparked,
      You are!  You really are!

    Albeit yt my brains are nil,
      I’m gallante as can be;
    I’lle be to you whate’er you wille,
      If you’lle be more to me.”

    “Faire youthe,” ye maide replied, “I do
      Not barter, as a rule,
    But I’lle be sister untoe you,—­
      Be you my Aprille foole.”

A Rhyming Reverie.

    It was a dainty lady’s glove;
    A souvenir to rhyme with love.

    It was the memory of a kiss,
    So called to make it rhyme with bliss.

    There was a month at Mt.  Desert,
    Synonymous and rhymes with flirt.

    A pretty girl and lots of style,
    Which rhymes with happy for a while.

    There came a rival old and bold,
    To make him rhyme with gold and sold.

    A broken heart there had to be. 
    Alas, the rhyme just fitted me.

A Sure Winner.

    Oh, treat me not with cold disdain,
      My pretty maids of fashion;
    Look upon the hearts you’ve slain,
      And listen to my passion.

    Though I am not so peerly proud
      As men of higher station,
    So handsome that the madding crowd
      Collects in admiration;

    And have, perhaps, too great a store
      Of sandy hair and freckles,
    I’ve mortgages and bonds galore,
      And muchly many shekels.

    You yet may journey league or mile
      To wed, as you’re aware. 
    Come, cease your longing for mere style,
      And take A. MILLIONNAIRE.

Tantalization.

    She stands beneath the mistletoe
      As though she did not know it. 
    She looks quite unconcerned, you know,
      And pretty, yes,—­but, blow it,

    I have to turn and walk away;
      I’ll have revenge anon. 
    She knows quite well, alack the day,
      That my wife is looking on.

His Usual Fate.

    All one season
      Lost to reason,
    Breathing sea air
    By the beach, where
      Young hearts mingle,
    Love was playful
    All the day full. 
      We were single.