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'I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne; He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Nor his own changing mind an hour, He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He'll wither your youngest flower.
To speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.
We hear no more of her until after her father's decease, when she re-enters the lists of Cupid in another State, as the blushing and still beautiful virgin-betrothed of a man of birth and means, who woos and weds her under her maiden cognomen the entire family, including the valiant brother who figured as whippee or whipper, in the castigation exploit being accomplices in the righteous fraud.
To strut and languish; to exhibit every beauteous lure; to sacrifice ease, comfort, speed, everything to beauty for her sake this is the nature of the he-bird of any species; the characteristic, not of the turkey, but of the cock! With drumming of loud wings, with crow and quack and bursts of glorious song, he woos his mate; displays his splendors before her; fights fiercely with his rivals.
The lecture begins thus: When a man remains absent from his wife seven years, he has no right to return as a calm, confident, self-assured husband, with his portion of home-baked tenderness; he should come timidly, as a tender, attentive, enamoured cavalier, who woos his mistress and draws near to her humbly, tremblingly, and submissively not looking upon her as his wife, but as the fair lady whose love he may hope to win."
Æsop is the hero of this feast; Æsop is a gentleman to-night, with a silk coat on his back and a lace kerchief in his fingers. He woos a beauty, and the chivalry of France shall witness his triumph. Lagardere is dead! Long live Æsop, who killed him!" The little marquis advanced towards the jesting hunchback with clinched hands and angry eyes.
And the old, sweet, home words with which a mother soothes her babe, with which a lover woos his bride, the old words of God, and home and native land, are the words that are rich in association and in power to move the heart. A bird lines its nest with feathers plucked from its own breast, and the heart steeps the dear, simple speech of home life in sacred associations.
The Sunset of a Dying Race The Indian composes music for every emotion of his soul. He has a song for the Great Mystery; for the animals of the chase; for the maiden he woos; for the rippling river. His prayers are breathed in song. His whole life is an expression in music.
The professional spirit is the spirit in which a man carefully and courteously woos an elderly spinster for the sake of her comfortable fortune.
Through the open window came the voice of one singing to the demure accompaniment of a lute. "Hey?" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "Now, may I never sit among the saints," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "if that is not the voice of Raoul de Prison, my new page." "Hush," Matthiette whispered. "He woos my maid, Alys. He often sings under the window, and I wink at it."
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