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M. VIEUXBOIS

Where have you been?

BABETTE

Why M'sieu' knows:

April! . . . Ville d'Avray! . . . Ma'am'selle Rose!

M. VIEUXBOIS

Ah! I am old, and I forget.

Was the place growing green, Babette?

BABETTE

But of a greenness!—yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue!-so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!

(Lifting her apron to her eyes)

This poor

Ma'am'selle!

M. VIEUXBOIS

You're a good girl, Babette, but she,—

She was an Angel, verily.

Sometimes I think I see her yet

Stand smiling by the cabinet;

And once, I know, she peeped and laughed

Betwixt the curtains . . .

Where's the draught?

(She gives him a cup)

Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette;

Sing me your Norman chansonnette.

BABETTE (sings)

"Once at the Angelus,

(Ere I was dead), Angels all glorious

Came to my bed;

Angels in blue and white

Crowned on the Head."

M. VIEUXBOIS (drowsily)

"She was an Angel" . . . "Once she laughed".

What, was I dreaming?

Where's the draught?

A Dialogue from Plato

BABETTE (showing the empty cup)

The draught, M'sieu"?

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1773

A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO

Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd.-CLAUDE TILLIER

I'D "read" three hours. Both notes and text

Were fast a mist becoming; .

In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,

Then out.

The casement's leafage sways,

And, parted light, discloses

Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze

Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?"

"O, mine's a mere romancer!" "So Plato is." "Then read him-do; And I'll read mine for answer."

I read: "My Plato (Plato, too

That wisdom thus should harden!)
Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.""

She smiled. "My book in turn avers
(No author's name is stated).
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mistranslated.”

"But hear, the next's in stronger style:

The Cynic School asserted

That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more. "My book, I find,
Observes some modern doctors
Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I: "Why not? 'Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
Diana's apparition.""

She blushed, this time. "If Plato's page

No wiser precept teaches,

Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,

And walk to Burnham Beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates

(I find he too is talking)

Thinks Learning can't remain at ease

When Beauty goes a-walking."

The Ladies of St. James's

1775

She read no more. I leapt the sill:
The sequel's scarce essential-
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.

Austin Dobson [1840

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

Phyllida amo ante alias.-VIRGIL

THE ladies of St. James's

Go swinging to the play;

Their footmen run before them,

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!.

She takes her buckled shoon,

When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!

They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

The breath of heath and furze
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!

They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,-

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words.
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!

They have their fits and freaks; \

They smile on you-for seconds,

They frown on you-for weeks:

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true-and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida!

I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;

I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida-for Phyllida

Is all the world to me!

Austin Dobson [1840

THE CURE'S PROGRESS

MONSIEUR the Curé down the street

Comes with his kind old face,

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

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