PASSAGES FROM "DON JUAN." 149 Into each other-and beholding this, A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love, Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense in concert move, Alas! the love of woman! it is known And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, In her first passion woman loves her lover, As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber. LORD BYRON. HOW MUCH. Ask not how much I love thee: Do not question why, I have told thee the tale In the evening pale, With a tear and a sigh. I told thee, when Love was hopeless- That the stars above Shine ever on love, Though they frown on the fate of kings. O, a king would have loved and left thee, And away thy sweet love cast; But I am thine while the stars shall shine, BARRY CORNWALL (PROCTER) CUPID MISTAKEN. As afternoon, one summer day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. WON'T YOU? With skill he chose his sharpest dart, "I faint! I die!" the goddess cried. "O cruel, couldst thou find no other To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother." Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak, 'Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye. Alas! how easy my mistake, I took you for your likeness Cloë." 151 MATTHEW PRIOR. WON'T YOU? Do you remember when you heard When, having wandered all the day, And when you blushed and could not speak, I fondly kissed your glowing cheek, Did that affront you? Oh, surely not-your eye exprest I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will,” Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes You'll love me-wont you? THOMAS H. BAYLY. DOLCINO TO MARGARET. The world goes up and the world goes down, Sweet wife, No, never come over again. For woman is warm though man be cold, Till the heart which at even was weary and old Sweet wife, To its work in the morning gay. CHARLES KINGSLEY. WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? HOW MANY TIMES. How many times do I love thee, dear? Of a new-fall'n year, Whose white and sable hours appear So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love, again? Of the evening rain, Unraveled from the tumbling main, 153 THOMAS LOVELL BEDOES. WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell? She flys to the window when Arundel rings; She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings, |