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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, March 4, 1893, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, March 4, 1893 Author: Various Editor: Francis Burnand Release Date: August 23, 2007 [EBook #22380] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON *** Produced by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: The short pieces "Suppositious" and "Quite Another Thing" were moved from their original positions accompanying the illustration "The Political Fancy Dress Ball at Covent Gardent" to the end, to prevent the "Essence of Parliament" article from being broken in the middle. PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 104. March 4, 1893. A BALLAD OF WEALTHY WOOING. 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
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