LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

My Angelina once enjoyed The mild lawn-tennis all the day, And did not scorn to be employed In croquet's unexciting fray; O truly happy seasons, when I think of you, I wish you back, For Angelina had not then Become a golfing maniac! But now of none of these she thinks, All such pursuits she reckons "slow," And spends the days upon the links, Where nevermore I mean to go: For I recall the heartless snubs, Which those enchanting lips let fall, When I demolished several clubs, And lost my temper, and the ball. To-day the fickle maid prefers With young Macduff to pass her time, Because his "putting," she avers— Whatever that be—"is sublime;" And when I get a chance to state The deep affection felt by me, She interrupts me to relate How well she did that hole in three! I love my Angelina still, Yet he who chose her as a wife Would be expected to fulfil A caddie's duties all his life; So, if I turn away instead, You will not hold me much to blame? How can I woo her? She is wed Already—to this awful game!

O feeblest game, how strange if you should rise To favour, vice tennis superseded! And yet beneath such glowing summer skies, When wildest energy is invalided, Mere hitting balls through little hoops Seems work enough. One merely stoops, And lounges round, no other toil is needed. Upon a breezy lawn beneath the shade Of rustling trees that hide the sky so sunny, I'll play, no steady game as would be played By solemn, earnest folks as though for money— For love is better. Simply stoop, And hit the ball. It's through the hoop! My partner smiles; she seems to think it funny. My pretty partner, whose bright, laughing eyes Gaze at me while I aim another blow; lo, I've missed because I looked at her! With sighs I murmur an apologetic solo. The proudest athlete here might stoop, To hit a ball just through a hoop, And say the game—with her—beats golf and polo.