HE waits with Cupid at the

wing—

The transformation is ap-

proaching;—

She gives the god, poor little

thing,

Some final hints by way of

"coaching."

For soon the merry motley

clown—

Most purely practical of

jokers—

Will bring the pit and gallery

down

With petty larcenies and

pokers.

No Venus—anything but that.

Could Fancy, howsoever flighty,

Transform the mother of this brat

To aught resembling Aphrodite?

No Venus, but the daily sport

Of common cares and vulgar trials;

No monarch of a Paphian court—

Her court is in the Seven Dials.

She taught young Love to play the part—

To bend the bow and aim the arrows

Those arms will never pierce a heart.

Unless it be a Cockney sparrow's.

Alas, the Truthful never wooed

The Beautiful to fashion Cupid:

But, in some sympathetic mood,

Perhaps the Ugly wooed the Stupid.

Is Cupid nervous? Not a bit;

Love seeks no mortal approbation.

Stalls, boxes, gallery, and pit

May hiss or cheer the transformation.

Mamma looks anxious and afraid

While parting with her young beginner,

Whose little wages, weekly paid,

Will pay her for a weekly dinner.