sue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began;
Here was the sign and the cue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!

ENVOY
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
--But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE"

When I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high;--
How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose,
Now your May-time is nigh;--
How fast the time goes!

And a life,--how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)

Is it Cupid? Who knows!
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose;--
How fast the time goes!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

URCEUS EXIT

I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began a la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turned to a Sonnet.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

A CORSAGE BOUQUET

Myrtilla, to-night,
Wears Jacqueminot roses.
She's the loveliest sight!
Myrtilla to-night:--
Correspondingly light
My pocket-book closes.
Myrtilla, to-night
Wears Jacqueminot roses.

Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]

TWO TRIOLETS

What he said:--
This kiss upon your fan I press--
Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it!
And may it from its soft recess--
This kiss upon your fan I press--
Be blown to you, a shy caress,
By this white down, whene'er you use it.
This kiss upon your fan I press,--
Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it!

What she thought:--
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man
To kiss a fan
When he knows--that--he--can--
Or ought to know it--
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!

Harrison Robertson [1856-

THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES
From The French Of Francois Villon 1450

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,--
She whose beauty was more than human?...
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where's Heloise, the