Two sweethearts on a bench were set,
Two birds among the boughs were met;
So love and song were heard and seen
In Rotten Row.

A horse or two there was to fret
The soundless sand; but work and debt,
Fair flowers and falling leaves between,
While clocks are chiming clear and keen,
A man may very well forget
In Rotten Row.

W.E.  HENLEY.

THE DUET.

I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey,
Were singing together a blithe duet,
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me,—­
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.

  As they sang together, the whole scene fled,
    The room’s rich hangings, the sweet home air,
    Stately Maud, with her proud blond head,
  And I seemed to see in her place instead
    A wealth of blue-black hair,
  And a face, ah! your face—­yours, Lisette;
  A face it were wiser I should forget.

  We were back—­well, no matter when or where;
    But you remember, I know, Lisette. 
  I saw you, dainty and debonair,
  With the very same look that you used to wear
    In the days I should forget. 
  And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed,
  Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.

  Two small slippers with big rosettes
    Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there,
  While we sat smoking our cigarettes
  (Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!)
    And singing that self-same air: 
  And between the verses, for interlude,
  I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.

  You were so full of a subtle fire,
    You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette;
  You were everything men admire;
  And there were no fetters to make us tire,
    For you were—­a pretty grisette. 
  But you loved as only such natures can,
  With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.

  They have ceased singing that old duet,
    Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey. 
  “You are burning your coat with your cigarette,
  And qu’avez vous, dearest, your lids are wet,”
    Maud says, as she leans o’er me. 
  And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
  “Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes.”

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

MY CIGARETTE.

  Ma pauvre petite,
  My little sweet,
    Why do you cry? 
  Why this small tear,
  So pure and clear,
    In each blue eye?

  “My cigarette—­
  I ’m smoking yet?”
    (I’ll be discreet.)
  I toss it, see,
  Away from me
    Into the street.

  You see I do
  All things for you. 
    Come, let us sup. 
  (But, oh, what joy
  To be that boy
    Who picked it up.)