Like oil on troubled water: I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, And begged him to escort her. Vainly he strove, with ready wit, To joke about the weather – To ventilate the last 'ON DIT' – To quote the price of leather – She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit: Let us lament together!" I urged "You're wasting time, you know: Delay will spoil the venison." "My heart is wasted with my woe! There is no rest – in Venice, on The Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted low From Byron and from Tennyson. I need not tell of soup and fish In solemn silence swallowed, The sobs that ushered in each dish, And its departure followed, Nor yet my suicidal wish To BE the cheese I hollowed. Some desperate attempts were made To start a conversation; "Madam," the sportive Brown essayed, "Which kind of recreation, Hunting or fishing, have you made Your special occupation?" Her lips curved downwards instantly, As if of india-rubber. "Hounds IN FULL CRY I like," said she: (Oh how I longed to snub her!) "Of fish, a whale's the one for me, IT IS SO FULL OF BLUBBER!" The night's performance was "King John." "It's dull," she wept, "and so-so!" Awhile I let her tears flow on, She said they soothed her woe so! At length the curtain rose upon 'Bombastes Furioso.' In vain we roared; in vain we tried To rouse her into laughter: Her pensive glances wandered wide