Quintilian orating.
Quintilian, years and years ago,Was It on oratory;Demosthenes and CiceroHe studied con amore;He ran an elocution schoolAnd taught the Roman lispersThe reason and the rote and ruleFor requesting father, dear father, to come home with me now, in most pathetic whispers.'Twas he who showed that thus and thusOne should appear when statingThe last remarks of SpartacusOn ceasing gladiating.(Perchance the word we just have usedEscaped your dictionary.We mean when Spartacus refusedTo be butchered to make a Roman holiday exceedingly exciting and otherwise gladsome and merry.)Quintilian's book on How to SpeakIs classic at this moment;It tells the speaker when to shriekAnd when his rage to foment.The boy who on commencement dayCites Patrick Henry's speechesMust do so in Quintilian's wayWhen a single order of liberty, with a supplemental second choice of death, he beseeches.The actor who would thrill the crowd(A blood and marrow freezer)By handing out in accents proud"Mark Antony on Cæsar,"Must heed the rules set down by Quint.,And so must he who risesTo heights of glowing fame by dintOf the justly famous to be or not to be, center of the stage, two spotlights sizzling, when he as Hamlet soliloquizes.Quintilian, we are fain to say,Was It on oratory,And even in this later dayReceives his share of glory,Except when elocutionistsOur peace and comfort mangle,By showing how fair Bessie's wristsWere strained and bruised while swinging around in the belfry the time she said the curfew should not jangle.
Quintilian, years and years ago,Was It on oratory;Demosthenes and CiceroHe studied con amore;He ran an elocution schoolAnd taught the Roman lispersThe reason and the rote and ruleFor requesting father, dear father, to come home with me now, in most pathetic whispers.
'Twas he who showed that thus and thusOne should appear when statingThe last remarks of SpartacusOn ceasing gladiating.(Perchance the word we just have usedEscaped your dictionary.We mean when Spartacus refusedTo be butchered to make a Roman holiday exceedingly exciting and otherwise gladsome and merry.)
Quintilian's book on How to SpeakIs classic at this moment;It tells the speaker when to shriekAnd when his rage to foment.The boy who on commencement dayCites Patrick Henry's speechesMust do so in Quintilian's wayWhen a single order of liberty, with a supplemental second choice of death, he beseeches.
The actor who would thrill the crowd(A blood and marrow freezer)By handing out in accents proud"Mark Antony on Cæsar,"Must heed the rules set down by Quint.,And so must he who risesTo heights of glowing fame by dintOf the justly famous to be or not to be, center of the stage, two spotlights sizzling, when he as Hamlet soliloquizes.
Quintilian, we are fain to say,Was It on oratory,And even in this later dayReceives his share of glory,Except when elocutionistsOur peace and comfort mangle,By showing how fair Bessie's wristsWere strained and bruised while swinging around in the belfry the time she said the curfew should not jangle.
Sir Walter and Elizabeth R.
Sir Walter Raleigh was a manOf excellent deportment;He could advise a King or KhanWhat going into court meant;When Spenser wrote his Faerie QueeneSir Walter Raleigh said itBetrayed a wit both sharp and clean(We wonder if he read it).Good Queen Elizabeth one dayWas out (perhaps for shopping),And Raleigh chanced along the wayWhere she in wrath was stopping."How can I get across that mud?"She asked; and in the muddleSir Walter showed his gentle blood—His cloak soon bridged the puddle.A smile replaced the good queen's frown,She paused there for a minuteTo set more straight the royal crown(It had no hat pin in it).And then she murmured low to Walt.:"Sir, you shall see my tailor."He answered: "If I'm worth my salt,Good queen, make me a sailor!"And so good Queen ElizabethGave him a high position—He drew his pay like drawing breathAnd led an expeditionThat sailed across the raging seasFor gold and slaves and cocoa,And battled with the biting breezeAlong the Orinoco.Alas! It may have been the cloakThat was in mire imbedded,Or possibly some words he spokeThat made him be beheaded.But let us learn this lesson hereFrom poor Sir Walter Raleigh:The favor of the great, 'tis queer,Oft has a grim finale.
Sir Walter Raleigh was a manOf excellent deportment;He could advise a King or KhanWhat going into court meant;When Spenser wrote his Faerie QueeneSir Walter Raleigh said itBetrayed a wit both sharp and clean(We wonder if he read it).
Good Queen Elizabeth one dayWas out (perhaps for shopping),And Raleigh chanced along the wayWhere she in wrath was stopping."How can I get across that mud?"She asked; and in the muddleSir Walter showed his gentle blood—His cloak soon bridged the puddle.
A smile replaced the good queen's frown,She paused there for a minuteTo set more straight the royal crown(It had no hat pin in it).And then she murmured low to Walt.:"Sir, you shall see my tailor."He answered: "If I'm worth my salt,Good queen, make me a sailor!"
And so good Queen ElizabethGave him a high position—He drew his pay like drawing breathAnd led an expeditionThat sailed across the raging seasFor gold and slaves and cocoa,And battled with the biting breezeAlong the Orinoco.
Alas! It may have been the cloakThat was in mire imbedded,Or possibly some words he spokeThat made him be beheaded.But let us learn this lesson hereFrom poor Sir Walter Raleigh:The favor of the great, 'tis queer,Oft has a grim finale.
Hamlet addressing Yorick's Skull.
Shakspeare, as all of us have read,Once asked: "What's in a name?"An alias for the rose, he said,Would make it smell the same.But Shakspeare was so frivolous—Excuse us if we sayThat it has always seemed to usHis work was mostly play.As "Shaxpere," "Shakspere," "Shaikspeare," too,His signature is found;His autographs are much too fewTo be passed all around.This shows the cumulative worthOf honest, solid fame;The bidders come from all the earthTo buy his misspelled name.He dramatized the thrilling sceneWhere Cæsar met his end,Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean,And Brutus, Cæsar's friend,Stabbed swiftly with their daggers brightWhen Julius came in reach—Then Antony, thrilled at the sight,Arose and made a speech.No chorus girls were in his shows;In them no "social queens"Were given princely wage to poseAnd dignify the scenes.But there be those who say there areOdd facts that can't be passed:For instance, oft we see a starWith ciphers in the cast—And this leads many to declareThat Bacon wrote the shows;A cryptic secret hidden thereThey say they will disclose.It may be that each drama hoardsA Bacon cryptogram,For often, proud upon the boardsThere struts and strides a ham.
Shakspeare, as all of us have read,Once asked: "What's in a name?"An alias for the rose, he said,Would make it smell the same.But Shakspeare was so frivolous—Excuse us if we sayThat it has always seemed to usHis work was mostly play.
As "Shaxpere," "Shakspere," "Shaikspeare," too,His signature is found;His autographs are much too fewTo be passed all around.This shows the cumulative worthOf honest, solid fame;The bidders come from all the earthTo buy his misspelled name.
He dramatized the thrilling sceneWhere Cæsar met his end,Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean,And Brutus, Cæsar's friend,Stabbed swiftly with their daggers brightWhen Julius came in reach—Then Antony, thrilled at the sight,Arose and made a speech.
No chorus girls were in his shows;In them no "social queens"Were given princely wage to poseAnd dignify the scenes.But there be those who say there areOdd facts that can't be passed:For instance, oft we see a starWith ciphers in the cast—
And this leads many to declareThat Bacon wrote the shows;A cryptic secret hidden thereThey say they will disclose.It may be that each drama hoardsA Bacon cryptogram,For often, proud upon the boardsThere struts and strides a ham.
William Tell with his bow.
The tale of Tell is simply told;He would not heed the tyrant,But, big and brave and bluffly boldHe spurned the cold aspirant—He simply came out plain and flatAnd his own rights defended;He would not bow to Gessler's hatUpon the pole suspended.Then Gessler came upon the sceneAnd ordered Tell to knuckle;Tell fixed him with his glances keenAnd gave a scornful chuckle.Then Gessler frowned and knit his brows(A most portentous omen);"Risk your boy's life or make those bows!"(We've lost the boy's cognomen.)Tell smiled, and got his trusty bow,Likewise his trusty arrow(Now, William Tell, as you should know,Could wing the fleeting sparrowOr he could truly shoot the chutes)—So Gessler said: "Now grappleWith this one fact—for you the bootsUnless you cleave the apple."Did Tell succeed? In your school booksThe tale is very well told,And Gessler looked some haughty looksWhen he heard what Bill Tell told."What did you hide this arrow for?"Asked Gessler of the wizard."I meant to split that apple, orI'd have to harm your gizzard!"That's all, except it shall endureAs acted by Salvini.(But was it?) And the overtureComposed by one RossiniShall prove that Tell is not a mythConcocted to deceive us.We've seen the bow he did it with;We hope you will believe us.
The tale of Tell is simply told;He would not heed the tyrant,But, big and brave and bluffly boldHe spurned the cold aspirant—He simply came out plain and flatAnd his own rights defended;He would not bow to Gessler's hatUpon the pole suspended.
Then Gessler came upon the sceneAnd ordered Tell to knuckle;Tell fixed him with his glances keenAnd gave a scornful chuckle.Then Gessler frowned and knit his brows(A most portentous omen);"Risk your boy's life or make those bows!"(We've lost the boy's cognomen.)
Tell smiled, and got his trusty bow,Likewise his trusty arrow(Now, William Tell, as you should know,Could wing the fleeting sparrowOr he could truly shoot the chutes)—So Gessler said: "Now grappleWith this one fact—for you the bootsUnless you cleave the apple."
Did Tell succeed? In your school booksThe tale is very well told,And Gessler looked some haughty looksWhen he heard what Bill Tell told."What did you hide this arrow for?"Asked Gessler of the wizard."I meant to split that apple, orI'd have to harm your gizzard!"
That's all, except it shall endureAs acted by Salvini.(But was it?) And the overtureComposed by one RossiniShall prove that Tell is not a mythConcocted to deceive us.We've seen the bow he did it with;We hope you will believe us.
Ulysses and Circe with his crew as hogs.
Unusually popular with mythologic misses,And rather wont to wander when he should have stayed at home,We find is why our hero, the redoubtable Ulysses,Went rambling into trouble when he thought that he would roam.Penelope, good lady, left behind in their apartment,Had trouble in her efforts to get cash to pay the rent —Telemachus, their scion, knew not then what being smart meant;He should have helped his mamma, but he never earned a cent.Ulysses, in the meantime, found the land of the Cyclopes,And came within an ace of being made into a stew.He drugged old Polyphemus, then skedaddled with: "I hope 'e'sLaid up with indigestion," and went onward with his crew.From there he ambled farther till he reached the realm of Circé;We translate rather freely from the Odyssean log:"She proved to be a lady with no tenderness or mercy,Each comrade of Ulysses, for her sport, was made a hog."He got away, however, and he steered his trusty ship soThat it would take him quickly where more trouble might be found—He grounded on the island of the nymph they called Calypso,And dallied in her presence till eight years had rolled around.Homesickness must have struck him not so many years therafter;He sighed: "I think the time has come for me to pull my freight."The listeners had trouble when they tried to hold their laughterAt thinking of how long it was before he knew 'twas late.Penelope, fond woman, had been wooed by many suitors;To each and every one of them she firmly whispered "No."Ulysses, on appearing, changed the suitors into scooters—He strode into the parlor and said: "Take your hats and go!"Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him,And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave:He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him!(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.)
Unusually popular with mythologic misses,And rather wont to wander when he should have stayed at home,We find is why our hero, the redoubtable Ulysses,Went rambling into trouble when he thought that he would roam.Penelope, good lady, left behind in their apartment,Had trouble in her efforts to get cash to pay the rent —Telemachus, their scion, knew not then what being smart meant;He should have helped his mamma, but he never earned a cent.
Ulysses, in the meantime, found the land of the Cyclopes,And came within an ace of being made into a stew.He drugged old Polyphemus, then skedaddled with: "I hope 'e'sLaid up with indigestion," and went onward with his crew.From there he ambled farther till he reached the realm of Circé;We translate rather freely from the Odyssean log:"She proved to be a lady with no tenderness or mercy,Each comrade of Ulysses, for her sport, was made a hog."
He got away, however, and he steered his trusty ship soThat it would take him quickly where more trouble might be found—He grounded on the island of the nymph they called Calypso,And dallied in her presence till eight years had rolled around.Homesickness must have struck him not so many years therafter;He sighed: "I think the time has come for me to pull my freight."The listeners had trouble when they tried to hold their laughterAt thinking of how long it was before he knew 'twas late.
Penelope, fond woman, had been wooed by many suitors;To each and every one of them she firmly whispered "No."Ulysses, on appearing, changed the suitors into scooters—He strode into the parlor and said: "Take your hats and go!"Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him,And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave:He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him!(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.)
Villon reading a ballad.
Villon—bard of the early times,Familiarly called Francois—'Twas he who juggled so with rhymesThat we regard him now with awe;His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw".He drove with all a jockey's artAnd ran each race without a flaw—Villon gave these ballades their start.Must he flee to some safer climes?Did hunger at his vitals gnaw?Or was he jailed for varied crimes?In that he inspiration sawAnd, pen held in a grimy pawWould let his flashing fancy dartOfttimes in measures rather raw—Villon gave these ballades their start.His purse was ever bare of dimes;He often felt the grip of law;Yet he, the jolliest of mimes,Who slept most nights upon the strawAnd wakened to the raucous cawOf ravens, never shirked his part;He never stopped at fate to jaw—Villon gave these ballades their start.L'ENVOIPrincess, the moral's here to draw:When poets go into the martThe editors say coldly: "Pshaw!Villon gave these ballades their start."
Villon—bard of the early times,Familiarly called Francois—'Twas he who juggled so with rhymesThat we regard him now with awe;His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw".He drove with all a jockey's artAnd ran each race without a flaw—Villon gave these ballades their start.
Must he flee to some safer climes?Did hunger at his vitals gnaw?Or was he jailed for varied crimes?In that he inspiration sawAnd, pen held in a grimy pawWould let his flashing fancy dartOfttimes in measures rather raw—Villon gave these ballades their start.
His purse was ever bare of dimes;He often felt the grip of law;Yet he, the jolliest of mimes,Who slept most nights upon the strawAnd wakened to the raucous cawOf ravens, never shirked his part;He never stopped at fate to jaw—Villon gave these ballades their start.
L'ENVOI
Princess, the moral's here to draw:When poets go into the martThe editors say coldly: "Pshaw!Villon gave these ballades their start."
James Watt and his steam kettle.
When Watt was but a little boy—His papa's pride, his mama's joy—He sat beside the kitchen fireThe bubbling teapot to admire;And as he watched the hissing steamHe straightway then began to dreamOf what the vapor hot could doIf how to use it he but knew.Eventually he devisedA neat invention which surprisedThe people of that early day—He made an engine, anyway.This poor contrivance he improvedUntil by it great loads were movedAnd horses were displaced by rails,While sidewheels took the place of sails.Observe, my child, how one small thingA wondrous lot of change will bring:Because wise little Jimmy WattCould turn to some account his thought,Today the trains go whizzing throughThe land, and o'er the ocean blueThe mighty ships scoot night and dayFrom here to countries far away.Great thanks are due to this James Watt,Also to his mama's teapot,By porters who on every tripHold up the tourist for a tip,And also by that mighty massOf folks who travel on a pass,And by the ones who rake in rocksThrough squeezes that they work in stocks.But that it would like punning seemWe'd say Watt has the world's esteem(But since we've said it that way nowWe'll let the pun go, anyhow).But, somehow, when we chanced to stopBeside some busy boiler shop,We cannot say that peace was broughtTo all of us by Jimmy Watt.
When Watt was but a little boy—His papa's pride, his mama's joy—He sat beside the kitchen fireThe bubbling teapot to admire;And as he watched the hissing steamHe straightway then began to dreamOf what the vapor hot could doIf how to use it he but knew.
Eventually he devisedA neat invention which surprisedThe people of that early day—He made an engine, anyway.This poor contrivance he improvedUntil by it great loads were movedAnd horses were displaced by rails,While sidewheels took the place of sails.
Observe, my child, how one small thingA wondrous lot of change will bring:Because wise little Jimmy WattCould turn to some account his thought,Today the trains go whizzing throughThe land, and o'er the ocean blueThe mighty ships scoot night and dayFrom here to countries far away.
Great thanks are due to this James Watt,Also to his mama's teapot,By porters who on every tripHold up the tourist for a tip,And also by that mighty massOf folks who travel on a pass,And by the ones who rake in rocksThrough squeezes that they work in stocks.
But that it would like punning seemWe'd say Watt has the world's esteem(But since we've said it that way nowWe'll let the pun go, anyhow).But, somehow, when we chanced to stopBeside some busy boiler shop,We cannot say that peace was broughtTo all of us by Jimmy Watt.
Xantippe and Socrates.
Xantippe was the lady who was wed to Socrates—And their life was not a grand, sweet song;'Twas a study—just a study—done in all the minor keysWith the gloomy measures turned on strong.When old Socrates was busy at the office, she would waitTill he ambled in at 3 a.m.And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the doorway and the gate—Then the neighbors heard a lot from them.But Socrates—he didn't mind when she pulled out his hair,When she would box his ears for him he didn't seem to care—In a manner bland and wiseHe would then philosophizeOn the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither Here nor There.Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the truth)—Indigestion quickly seized on him,And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth,Yet he smiled across at wifey grim.When she tried her hand at pastry was the only time he spoke,And of course he had to make a break—'Twas perhaps the first appearance of the ever-lasting jokeOn the pies that mother used to make.Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head or dodgedBut merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying platter lodged,Then he murmured: "Xanty, dear,You have made a problem clear"—Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium massaged.Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the place,And she wouldn't let him take a drink.He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace—For 'most all that he could do was think.Thus you see that though Xantippe has been fiercly criticized,Yet she really made her husband's fame,For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the great man analyzedAll the subjects that have made his name.Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had beenForgotten like the others of the time that he lived in."Oh, my darling, such a help!"He most gratefully would yelpWhen she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin.
Xantippe was the lady who was wed to Socrates—And their life was not a grand, sweet song;'Twas a study—just a study—done in all the minor keysWith the gloomy measures turned on strong.When old Socrates was busy at the office, she would waitTill he ambled in at 3 a.m.And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the doorway and the gate—Then the neighbors heard a lot from them.
But Socrates—he didn't mind when she pulled out his hair,When she would box his ears for him he didn't seem to care—In a manner bland and wiseHe would then philosophizeOn the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither Here nor There.
Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the truth)—Indigestion quickly seized on him,And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth,Yet he smiled across at wifey grim.When she tried her hand at pastry was the only time he spoke,And of course he had to make a break—'Twas perhaps the first appearance of the ever-lasting jokeOn the pies that mother used to make.
Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head or dodgedBut merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying platter lodged,Then he murmured: "Xanty, dear,You have made a problem clear"—Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium massaged.
Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the place,And she wouldn't let him take a drink.He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace—For 'most all that he could do was think.Thus you see that though Xantippe has been fiercly criticized,Yet she really made her husband's fame,For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the great man analyzedAll the subjects that have made his name.
Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had beenForgotten like the others of the time that he lived in."Oh, my darling, such a help!"He most gratefully would yelpWhen she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin.
The merry old king of Yvetot.
There was a king of Yvetot,And easy was his head,Serene his rest—naught would suggestThe words so often said,That crowned heads are not peaceful;He never wore a frown—He laughed away the night and day.With gayly tilted crown.The jester of his palaceWas never forced to work,He never had to make things gladWith oily smile and smirk.This jolly king of YvetotHad no need of his fool—He made his own jests from the throneAnd pleasure was his rule.He never had a quarrelWith any other king;"Why should we fight?" he asked. "DelightIs such an easy thing."He told no one his troubles—In truth, he reigned so wellNo one could know, in fair Yvetot,Of troubles fit to tell.The little realm of Yvetot—A wee spot on the map—Has made a name secure in fameBecause of this rare chapWho put his crown on sidewiseAnd lolled upon his throneWith scepter set so that it metHis active funny bone.He was to war a stranger;His kingdom had no debt;Each of his laws possessed a clauseThat barred out care and fret—'Tis told that when expiringHe wasted his last breathIn one long laugh in life's behalf,And thus went to his death.There was a king of Yvetot—There are such kings today;They never sigh for things gone byBut laugh along the way.So, crown yourself with laughter,Put pleasure on the throne,And you'll possess in happinessAn Yvetot of your own.
There was a king of Yvetot,And easy was his head,Serene his rest—naught would suggestThe words so often said,That crowned heads are not peaceful;He never wore a frown—He laughed away the night and day.With gayly tilted crown.
The jester of his palaceWas never forced to work,He never had to make things gladWith oily smile and smirk.This jolly king of YvetotHad no need of his fool—He made his own jests from the throneAnd pleasure was his rule.
He never had a quarrelWith any other king;"Why should we fight?" he asked. "DelightIs such an easy thing."He told no one his troubles—In truth, he reigned so wellNo one could know, in fair Yvetot,Of troubles fit to tell.
The little realm of Yvetot—A wee spot on the map—Has made a name secure in fameBecause of this rare chapWho put his crown on sidewiseAnd lolled upon his throneWith scepter set so that it metHis active funny bone.
He was to war a stranger;His kingdom had no debt;Each of his laws possessed a clauseThat barred out care and fret—'Tis told that when expiringHe wasted his last breathIn one long laugh in life's behalf,And thus went to his death.
There was a king of Yvetot—There are such kings today;They never sigh for things gone byBut laugh along the way.So, crown yourself with laughter,Put pleasure on the throne,And you'll possess in happinessAn Yvetot of your own.
Zenobia in her jeweled fetters.
Zenobia was empress of the people of Palmyra;She tried to boss the army when she should have stayed at home.Aurelian, the soldier, led a sort of a hegiraOf armies up to fight her—they came all the way from Rome.Full soon he was pursuing them, with spears and daggers "shooing" them,At last he sent them to defeat and caught the doughty queen.He captured her regretfully, he said, but she said fretfullyThat she considered him a spiteful thing, and very, very "mean."He led her back a captive with her hands in jeweled fetters,Though she cast on Aurelian a look of proud disdain;Her manacles were carved and chased and decked by jewel setters,And to securely hold her he had made a golden chain.There is a lot of mystery connected with all history—Zenobia, they tell us, didn't want to go to jail,But, think of such a fate as that! Why, such a jeweled weight as thatWas better than to pawn your clothes and be released on bail!Zenobia was taken to the royal Roman palaceAnd there the charming prisoner, we read, was quite the rage—Had she lived in this time of ours (we say this without malice),She might have made a lasting hit by going on the stage.Aurelian was nice to her—he hinted more than twice to herThat he was getting pretty tired of kinging it alone.You see, she might have captured him—already she enraptured him—And had that handcuff jewelry to wear upon the throne.But, no! Zenobia was like 'most any other lady—They've been the same since mother Eve; they have the same way still:No matter if it's Princess May, or Susie, Sal or Sadie,No lady will consent to be convinced against her will.At last they told her civilly, "You'll have to live in Tivoli"(Which may or may not be the way to speak that city's name).She answered very prettily: "I'll love to live in Italy"—And there she stayed until she was an old, forgotten dame.
Zenobia was empress of the people of Palmyra;She tried to boss the army when she should have stayed at home.Aurelian, the soldier, led a sort of a hegiraOf armies up to fight her—they came all the way from Rome.
Full soon he was pursuing them, with spears and daggers "shooing" them,At last he sent them to defeat and caught the doughty queen.He captured her regretfully, he said, but she said fretfullyThat she considered him a spiteful thing, and very, very "mean."
He led her back a captive with her hands in jeweled fetters,Though she cast on Aurelian a look of proud disdain;Her manacles were carved and chased and decked by jewel setters,And to securely hold her he had made a golden chain.
There is a lot of mystery connected with all history—Zenobia, they tell us, didn't want to go to jail,But, think of such a fate as that! Why, such a jeweled weight as thatWas better than to pawn your clothes and be released on bail!
Zenobia was taken to the royal Roman palaceAnd there the charming prisoner, we read, was quite the rage—Had she lived in this time of ours (we say this without malice),She might have made a lasting hit by going on the stage.
Aurelian was nice to her—he hinted more than twice to herThat he was getting pretty tired of kinging it alone.You see, she might have captured him—already she enraptured him—And had that handcuff jewelry to wear upon the throne.
But, no! Zenobia was like 'most any other lady—They've been the same since mother Eve; they have the same way still:No matter if it's Princess May, or Susie, Sal or Sadie,No lady will consent to be convinced against her will.
At last they told her civilly, "You'll have to live in Tivoli"(Which may or may not be the way to speak that city's name).She answered very prettily: "I'll love to live in Italy"—And there she stayed until she was an old, forgotten dame.