There was a time when idle tales
Could set your heart aflame;
But now the novel nought avails,
Philosophy's your game.
You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest,
And pessimistic teaching;
Believe me that I loved you best
Before you took to preaching.
There's still some loveliness in life,
Despite what cynics say;
It is not all ignoble strife,
That greets us on our way.
Then prithee smooth that pretty brow,
So exquisitely knitted;
Mankind in general, I trow,
Can do without being pitied.
We'll linger over fans and frills,
Discuss dress bit by bit,
As in days when the worst of ills
Were frocks that would not fit.
'Twas frivolous, but I'm content
To hear you talk at random;
For life is not all argument,
And "_Quod est demonstrandum_."
You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang,
To be yourself once more,
To let philosophy go hang,
With every Buddhist bore.
"_Pro aris_," like a Volunteer,
A girl should be, "_et focis_;"
Supposing then you try, my dear,
A new metempsychosis.
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