(_In a weekly paper, a correspondent--presumably in the first
raptures--recommends falling in love as a cure for all worries._)
It is all very well to go talking like that,
But tell me, pray, how does one do it?
How feel at the sight of a hobble or hat
A passionate impulse to woo it?
I'm eager enough of my woes to be rid,
But Cupid needs help in the placing
Of shafts in a heart that's apparently hid
'Neath a tough pachydermatous casing.
I have mingled with maidens--the tender, the hard,
The coy and the clinging--in legions;
But none has contrived to inflict on the bard
A jolt in the cardiac regions;
Must I turn for assistance to science or art,
Or put my predicament meekly
To "Mona" who handles affairs of the heart
In _Sensitive Simperings_ (weekly)?
Your wonderful cure, my beneficent lad,
For me, who am ready to try it,
Is robbed of its worth by your failure to add
A hint as to how they supply it.
So nice a prescription I'm anxious to trust;
'Tis milder than pills or emulsion;
But I can't _fall_ in love; I require to be thrust,
And you ought to supply the propulsion.