Volume 103 — TO ASTRÆA.

Too pretty Palmist, oh, refrain, Nor thus my Destinies importune To bare the map of trite and plain Misfortune. Methinks, that I, sweet sorceress, Whose weird persuasions fascinate us, Can read my stars without express Afflatus. "I'm o'er ambitious"—more than true; To fail, the lot of clever men 'tis. Who's not a genius in his two- And-twenties. (Your two-and-twenties bide above, While mine—I'm in the sere and yellow— But I was once the model of A fellow.) "My line of head is vague; now quite Down in the depths, now past the skyline"— Hard lines! The line that sways a kite Is my line. "My line of heart is insecure—" Let "x" be hearts; to render scarce "x," Let "I"-s divide it; eyes are your Unfair sex. "My love will ne'er endure:" you wrong My passion: sooth, it will, if you're it: Yet stay: to wed?—I couldn't long Endure it. "My line of life is slurred and queer." It always was—a hankey-pankey Of glories missed—a fine career, But manqué. So there, forbear to spell my fate; I've saved you that sibylline trouble; You could but this true estimate Redouble. Still, if you clasp my hand, and plead, And, pouting, claim your second-sight, it May chance that though you may not read, You'll write it.