The Rubáiyát of a Bachelor

OULD you the spangle of existence spend
In Matrimony? Slow about, my Friend!
A maiden's hair is more oft false than true,
And on the chemist may her blush depend.

MAIDEN'S hair is more oft false than true!
Aye, and her Modiste is, perchance, the clue,
Could you but know it, to her sylph-like grace,
And, peradventure, to her Figure, too.

HY, for this NOTHING, then, should you provoke
The gods, or lightly don the galling yoke
Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain
Of Alimony-until-Death, if broke?

HY, when to-day your bills are promptly paid,
Assume the whims of some capricious maid,
Incur the debts you never did contract,
And yet must settle? Oh, the sorry trade!

O "settle down and marry," oft of yore,
I swore – but was I sober when I swore?
And then there came another girl – and I
Turned gaily to the old Love-Game, once more.

ND, much as I repented things like this,
And fondly dreamed of sweet Domestic Bliss,
I sometimes wonder what a wife can give,
One half so thrilling as a stolen kiss!

ET, if the hair should vanish from my brow,
My girth, in time, to great dimensions grow —
If youth's sweet-scented "Buds" should pass me by,
Accounting me an antiquated beau —

HY then, some winged angel, ere too late —
Some maiden verging onto twenty-eight —
Will gladly take what's left of me, I trow,
And, leading me to wedlock, thank her Fate!

…

LAS, for those who may to-day prepare
The wedding trousseau for the morrow's wear,
A voice of warning cried, "There's many a slip
Betwixt the Altar and the Solitaire!"

NTO this pact, man glides like water flowing,
But out of it is not such easy going;
For they, who once were simple, guileless things,
In Breach-of-Promise lore are now more knowing.

HAT! Would you cast a loving Woman hence?
Thou, Fickle One, prepare for penitence!
Full many a golden ducat shall you pay
To drown the memory of such insolence.

ND every note, that, in your cups, you write,
In cold black Type, perchance shall see the light;
While all the World, across its coffee urn,
Shall titter gaily at the sorry sight.

H yes! For all the papers, which discussed
Your wedding plans, shall turn your cake to crust,
Publish your letters and your photographs,
And trail your Egotism in the dust!

HE Opera Queens, that men have wooed and won,
Have loved them for a while, and then – anon,
Like snow upon Broadway, with lightsome "touch,"
Annexed their millions, and alas, have flown!

H look you, in the long and varied list
Of Millionaires thus rifled and dismissed,
How, rich man, after rich man, bode his hour,
Then went his way, to swell the golden grist.

HAT Diva's rubies ever glow so red
As when some Gilded Chappie hath been bled?
And every diamond the Show Girl wears,
Dropped in her lap, when some Fool lost his head.

ND those who hung around the green-room door,
And those who backed the Show and paid the score,
Alike, to no such "Angels" have been turned,
As, once repentant, men feel sorry for.

H, my Good Fellow, keep the cash, that clears
To-day of unpaid debts and future fears.
To-morrow! Why, to-morrow, you may be,
Yourself, with Yesterday's cast-off millionaires.

HEN, make the most of what you still may spend,
Ere you, too, into bankruptcy descend,
Bill upon bill, and under bill, to lie,
Sans Cash, sans Love, sans Lady – What an end!

…