A "PETITE COMEDIE" IN RHYME.
LOVER.
COQUETTE! coquette! now, is it fair
To weave for me your magic hair,
Binding me thus, all unaware?
Till, wholly meshed in every part,
From dazzled eyes to captured heart,
Scarce can I, thro' your radiant snare,
Inhale one waft of free-born air;
Answer, coquette! now, is it fair?
COQUETTE.
O, foolish querist! what if I,
Beholding your enamored face
And every well-attested trace
Of verdant, young idolatry,
Should, after my own fashion, choose
To play the subtly-amorous muse,
Your inexperienced heart-strings touch,
Wooing the warm chords overmuch!
Or tempt you, 'twixt a smile and sigh,
To enter beauty's luminous net?
Such snares must evermore be set
For blinded human flies like you!
Cease, therefore, this half-feigned ado,
You are a natural victim! I
Am by the same strange law's decree,
Your dear, predestined enemy!
LOVER.
Is such the only comfort, then,
You give to thrice-deluded men?
Suppose our life-plan quite upset,
Reversed in whole, or changed in part;
My sex your own, and feelings strong,
(Wiled by deep passion's syren song),
Yours the blind victim's tangled heart,
And mine to weave the tempter's net--
What then, O! honey-tongued coquette?
COQUETTE.
Such questions!--ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!--
Fancy I've places changed with you!
I cannot! 'tis too hard a task
Of any mortal belle to ask!
[ASIDE with a half-humorous, half-solemn air.]
Fancy my person changed to his
By some odd metamorphosis!
My fairy frame to that huge bulk
That might befit red Rory O'Fulke,
Our Irish groom!--six feet, at least,
Of stature--with that boundless waist,
Instead of mine, Titania might
Quite envy on a "round-dance" night,
By all the waltzing beaux adored!
My brow to that great, sabre-scored
Brown forehead; and my cheeks of rose
To bearded puffs; my delicate nose--
Quel horreur! 'tis a hideous dream!
LOVER.
For full five seconds, it would seem
As if you really thought, coquette,
On something grave! Slowly about
Your flower-like lips' delicious pout,
Came tiny puckerings, lined with doubt;
Your large eyes widened deep and blue,
As May-skies glimpsed thro' morning dew;
And shadows vague as noon-tide trance
Stole o'er your vivid countenance:
Coquette! show pity!--after all,
Have you resolved to free front thrall
Your wretched serf? . . . Close, close your eyes
For one brief, merciful minute; try
To turn your perfect mouth awry;
Let those arch smiles which magnetize
My inmost blood be changed to scorn;
Do all a winsome lady born
To loveliness and witchery, can,
To flout a love-tormented man!
COQUETTE.
You know as well as I
What balms have soothed your slavery;
Besides, I'm sure, whate'er you say,
There never yet has dawned the day
On which, in truth ('tis vain to frown),
You longed to lay your fetters down.
Surely but airy chains they are,
And tenuous as the farthest star.
But should you break the binding net,
You'd come . . . (ah! graceless, thankless loon!)
'Ere the next wax or wane of moon,
To sigh, or call on "sweet coquette!"
LOVER.
Too much! by heaven! you heartless chit!
I'll prove you underrate my wit,
And self-respect, for all that's passed!
I will--will break these bonds at last.
Yes! look! you false, hard-hearted girl!
I dash to earth the dazzling curl
You gave me once! . . . your portrait too! . . .
(O, yes! I stole it, . . . what of that
'Twill soon be shapeless, crushed and flat,
Beneath my stern, avenging heel!
Would it were flesh, and so could feel,
. . . Where is it! where?
[He searches frantically, but vainly for the likeness in one pocket after another.]
[COQUETTE--approaching with infinite sweetness, rests one hand upon his shoulder, while the forefinger of the other is archly shaken in his angry face, that changes with ludicrous quickness, from passion to bewilderment, and from bewilderment to rapture]:
. . . Why, Hal, for shame! you prayed just now,
With earnest mien and solemn brow,
That I would sting you with hot scorn;
"Do all a winsome lady born
To loveliness and witchery, can,
To flout a love-tormented man."
And lo! because your bidding's done;
Half-way, and mildly; why, I've won
Such rude abuse! . . . I shall not stir,
Till you have begged my pardon, sir!
. . . Hal! do you love me? . . .
LOVER.
. . . Angel! saint!
Can this be true! . . . my heart grows faint,
With happiness! . . . so then, despite--
COQUETTE (interrupting).
Yes, dear! of feigned contempt and slight,
--I have loved you always! who but you
Had failed thus long to read me true?
You dear, delightful, blundering boy.
LOVER.
. . . Cupid be blessed! Oh, love! Oh, joy!
. . . But where's that precious curl I threw
Rashly away? . . . Already flown
On some light wind?
COQUETTE.
--Yes, yes, 'tis gone!
But then the whole bright, golden net
(shaking down her curls.)
You've gained with me! . . . If still unfair
You deem this soft, imprisoning snare;
And self-respect, for all that's passed,
Demands you break your bonds at last,
Give me due warning--if you please--
LOVER (embracing her).
Ah! thus a loving seal is set
On rosy lips to keep them dumb;
Some other eve beneath the trees
Of golden summer, 'mid the hum
Of forest brooks and hive-bound bees,
I'll hearken, madcap, while you tease.
But now, my heart the future years
Sees through a mist of blissful tears;
My eyes with gracious dew are wet;
I'm dreaming! . . . No! . . . here smiles coquette!
