I've faith in woman's friendship too--for man!
They're true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives:
And that's enough to bless us all our lives.
That man's a selfish fellow, and a bore, Who is unsatisfied and asks for more."
"But there is need of more!" I here broke in.
"I hold that woman guilty of a sin, Who would not cling to, and defend another, As nobly as she would stand by a brother.
Who would not suffer for a sister's sake, And, were there need to prove her friendship, make 'Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost.
Who would not do this for a friend is lost To every nobler principle."
"Shame, shame!"
Cried Vivian, laughing, "for you now defame The whole sweet sex; since there's not one would do The thing you name, nor would I want her to.
I love the sex. My mother was a woman - I hope my wife will be, and wholly human.
And if she wants to make some sacrifice, I'll think her far more sensible and wise To let her husband reap the benefit, Instead of some old maid or senseless chit.
Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so:
And I shall love my wife right well, I know.
Now there's a point regarding selfish love, You thirst to argue with me, and disprove.
But since these cosy hours will soon be gone, And all our meetings broken in upon, No more of these rare moments must be spent In vain discussions, or in argument.
I wish Miss Trevor was in--Jericho!
(You see the selfishness begins to show.)
She wants to see you?--So do I: but she Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.
'Come all the same?' that means I'll be allowed To realize that 'three can make a crowd.'
I do not like to feel myself de trop.
With two girl cronies would I not be so?
My ring would interrupt some private chat.
You'd ask me in and take my cane and hat, And speak about the lovely summer day, And think--'The lout! I wish he'd kept away.'
Miss Trevor'd smile, but just to hide a pout And count the moments till I was shown out.
And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing, No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate, (Or otherwise Miss Trevor's dainty fingers,) Will bar my entrance into Eden's gate; And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers At heaven's portal, paying the price of sin, Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in."
He looked so melancholy sitting there, I laughed outright. "How well you act a part; You look the very picture of despair!
You've missed your calling, sir! suppose you start Upon a starring tour, and carve your name With Booth's and Barrett's on the heights of Fame But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send For you to help me entertain my friend, Unless you come without it. 'Cronies?' True, Wanting our 'private chats' as cronies do.
And we'll take those, while you are reading Greek, Or writing 'Lines to Dora's brow' or 'cheek.'
But when you have an hour or two of leisure, Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.
For never yet did heaven's sun shine on, Or stars discover, that phenomenon, In any country, or in any clime:
Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart, They did not feel the heavy weight of time In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part.
God made the sexes to associate:
Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate, Can ever undo what His hand has done, And, quite alone, make happy either one.
My Helen is an only child:- a pet Of loving parents: and she never yet Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded.
A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded.
Would she pluck roses? They must first be shorn, By careful hands, of every hateful thorn, And loving eyes must scan the pathway where Her feet may tread, to see no stones are there.
