Henry Austin Dobson - At the sign of the lyre (1884)

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The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily—
It wavers to a rose.

Henry Austin Dobson

Before me careless lying,
Young Love his ware comes crying;
Full soon the elf untreasures
His pack of pains and pleasures,
With roguish eye
He bids me buy
From out his pack of treasures.

Henry Austin Dobson

Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,—
A maid I know,—and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Henry Austin Dobson

"Love mocks us all"—as Horace said of old:
From sheer perversity, that arch-offender
Still yokes unequally the hot and cold,
The short and tall, the hardened and the tender;
He bids a Socrates espouse a scold,
And makes a Hercules forget his gender:—
Sic visum Veneri! Lest samples fail,
I add a fresh one from the page of BAYLE.

Henry Austin Dobson