Men and women,--more or less,--
Have minds o' the self-same metal, mould, and form!--
Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh,
And tie a kettle to a puppy's tail?--
Doth not the dimpled girl her 'kerchief don
(Mocking her elder) mantilla wise--then speed
To mass and noontide visits; where are bandied
Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment?
But when at budding womanhood arrived,
She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks
Of aught save some gay paranymph--who, caught
In love's stout meshes, flutters round the door,
And fondly beckons her away from home,--
The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage
The foolish bird within its narrow cell!--
And then, the grandame idly wastes her breath,
In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty--
And strict decorum,--from some musty volume:
But the clipp'd wings will quickly sprout again;
And whilst the doating father thinks his child
A paragon of worth and bashfulness,--
_Her_ thoughts are hovering round the precious form
Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego!--
And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts,
In breathless expectation waits to see
His panting Rosa at the postern door;--
While she sighs forth "My gentle cavalier!"--
And then they straightway fall to kissing hands,
And antic-gestures--such as lovers use,--
Expressive of their wish quickly to tie
The gordian knot of marriage;--Pretty creatures!--
But why not earlier to have thought of this?--
When he, the innocent youth, was wont to play
At coscogilla; and the prattling girl,
Amid her nursery companions, toiled
In sempstress labours for her wooden dolls.--
Ah! wherefore, did I ask?--Because forsooth,
Their ways are changed with their increasing years!--
For when for gallantry the time be come--
And when the stagnant blood begins to boil
Within the veins, my master--then the lads
Cast longing looks on damosels--for nature
Defies restraint--and kin-birds flock together!--
And think not, Master, _Chance_ disposes thus;
Or were it so, then chance directs us all--
Whene'er we have attain'd the important age!
I, ------, am a living instance!--
Was I not once a lively laughing boy?
And, in my stripling age, did I not love
The pastimes suited to those madcap days?--
Oh! would to heaven those times were present still!
But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain?--
The silly thought doth find no shelter here,--
That any beauty, with dark roguish eyes,
With sparkling blood, and rising warmth of youth,
Would e'er affect this wrinkled face of mine:--
The very thought doth smack of foolishness!--
And, though the truth may be a bitter pill,
Yet,--
It is most fitting that we know ourselves.
_Spanish Comedy--Foreign Review._
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