Poor child—the reproach and the shame;

I'm your friend—but come, hang it, old fellow,

I swear you were somewhat to blame.

'What the deuce do I mean?' Well, I'll tell you,

Though it's none of my business. Here!

Just light a cigar, and keep quiet—

You started wrong, Charley Leclear.

You weren't in love when you married—

'Nor she!'—well, I know, but she tried

To keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,

But laughed at her for it. Her pride

Wouldn't stand that, you know. Did you ever

See a spirited girl in your life,

Who would patiently pose to be pitied

As a 'patient Griselda'-like wife

When her husband neglects her so plainly

As you did?—although, on the whole,

When the wife is the culprit, I've noticed

It's rather the favorite rôle.

So she flirted a little—in public—

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