at it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat;
But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny
Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat.
_Unknown._
A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY
I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal,
And find that my tastes are so far from concise
That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll
Suffice
I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric
Compression, but still, in defiance of force,
They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric
Discourse.
My _first_ must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter,
Proud, peerless, and perfect--in fact, _comme il faut_;
A waltzer and wit of the very first water--
For _show_.
But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous,
Once face them alone in the family cot,
Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us)
They're _not_.
But so much for appearances. Now for my _second_,
My lover, the wife of my home and my heart:
Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd
A part.
She must know all the needs of a rational being,
Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax;
And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing
My jokes.
I complete the menage by including the other
With all the domestic prestige of a hen:
As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother
Of men.
Total _three!_ and the virtues all well represented;
With fewer than this such a thing can't be done;
Though I've known married men who declare they're contented
With one.
Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter?
And how can one woman expect to combine
Certain qualifications essentially inter-
necine?
You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless;
I state that I find them as clear as can be:--
I will marry _no_ wife, since I can't do with one less
Than three.
_Owen Seaman._
THE POPE
The Pope he leads a happy life,
He fears not married care nor strife.
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,--
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.
But yet all happy's not his life,
He has no maid, nor blooming wife;
No child has he to ra
|