Volume 100 / Act 1 — A TEN MINUTES' IDYL.

Life is a farce, a dreary round, A fraud—of that there's not a doubt, Although I've only lately found It out. Bad boldly masquerades as good, Fruit turns to ashes in the taking, Unpleasant very is the rude Awaking. 'Tis Spring, when something, so one learns, Seems to affect the burnished dove, And when a young man's fancy turns To love. With window open to the breeze, The tramp of passers-by unheeding, I sit reclining at mine ease, A-reading. I've read enough—and not amiss I rather fancy now would be A little rest—ah! what is this I see? A sight that's almost past belief, And makes me think I must be raving, For there a girl a handkerchief Is waving! Like to a light that in the black And inky night shines o'er the main, It disappears, and then comes back Again. I know the house quite well—I've heard Her father's something in the City, And she's a blue-eyed girl absurd- -ly pretty. By Jove! she does it with a whirr, It's clear this inexpressive she Is given to the fortiter In re. Of course it's forward—and indeed It's worse—it's shockingly imprudent Thus to encourage me, a need- -y student. Her form is shadowy—I must Get out my glasses, so to bring Her nearer. Yes—the range is just The thing! Life is a farce, without a doubt! The cause of all this fuss and fluster Is just a housemaid shaking out Her duster!