Volume 100 / Act 3 — A FREEZING POINT.
Reading edition
(By a Frozen-out Lover.)
They tell me thou art cold, my sweet— A fact that scarcely odd is. Gales half so cruel never beat Against poor human bodies. Cupid's attire is far too light To weather Thirty Fahrenheit. How can a glow the soul entrance, When frostbite nips the finger, And blushes quit the countenance To nigh the nostril linger! Warmth were a miracle, in sight And grip of Thirty Fahrenheit. Chill! chill to me, my Paradise!! I'll not complain or curse on. One cannot well be otherwise To any mortal person. Mere icebergs ambulant, we fight Ferocious Thirty Fahrenheit. Cold art thou? Not so cold as I— Nought living could be colder. I'm far too cold to sob or sigh, Still less in passion smoulder. I'm turning fast to something quite As numb as Thirty Fahrenheit.
INFORMATION REQUIRED.—"Sir, I see a Volume advertised entitled, Unspoken Sermons. I should be glad to know where these are preached, as that's the place for yours truly, ONE WHO SNORES."
NEW BOOK OF IRISH LIFE.—The Bedad's Sons. By the Author of the tale of Indian Life, The Begum's Daughters.
THE DELIGHTS OF TRIAL BY JURY.
THESE GENTLEMEN ARE EXPECTED TO BE IN A JUDICIAL FRAME OF MIND AFTER HANGING ABOUT THE PRECINCTS OF THE COURT FOR SEVERAL DAYS, UNDER PENALTY OF A HEAVY FINE, WHILE THEIR PRIVATE BUSINESS IN THE CITY AND ELSEWHERE IS GOING TO THE DOGS. (WHY SHOULD NOT HALF-PAY OFFICERS DO THE WORK, AND RELIEVE BUSY MEN?)