They cry "He is so sleek and slim, It's quite a treat to look at him!" They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids – I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades – "Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!" (I told you he would find me out!) "My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!" "No more it is, my boy! But if it's YOURS, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know! "It's hardly safe, though, talking here – I'd best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!" – Insult me thus because I'm stout! I vow I'll go and call him out!

Atalanta in Camden-Town

AY, 'twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had heard all that nonsense before." She'd the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion. I had been to the play With my pearl of a Peri – But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, That "the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn't abide that Dundreary." Then I thought "Lucky boy! 'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!" And I noted with joy