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soul, who’ve implicitly ever believed In man the deceiver and maid the deceived; That, if hearts once united again become two, The broadcloth was fake and the muslin was true; Be known to the heroes that breathe in my lay, Harry Leslie, Esquire, and Sir Vivian de Grey.

I’ll tell you the story as told me in town Of this tourney in love where the best knight went down, This race where the distanced competitor won, And the first past the post was remorselessly done; This main where a bride was the stake of the play, And the players young Leslie and Vivian de Grey.

Sir Vivian de Grey was a county M.P., Plain, awkward and cold, but a faultless parti, And like bees to the bloom soft ambitions will throng Where acres are broad and where rent-rolls are long; So the pets of the season were vying, they say, To affect the affections of Vivian de Grey.

Only one of the fairest seem’d loth to be sold For the Member’s position, the Baronet’s gold; Only one little Phyllis seem’d firm to decline To kneel with the rest at that Corydon’s shrine; For tbe thing called a heart she had given away, Or promised — but not to Sir Vivian de Grey.

If I could I would tell by what spells and what art Young Leslie had gain’d this debateable heart. If I could I would guess at the soft whisper’d words That make little souk flutter like poor prison’d birds, And arm all the feelings in hostile array E’en to prestiged invaders like Vivian de Grey.

But my tale hurries on to a critical night; — In Belgravia was revel, and music, and light; There chariot and Hansom, and clarence and brougham, Contributed crush to hall, staircase, and room; And obsequious linkmen obtruding their ray Illumed the arrival of Vivian de Grey.

The reporters have scann’d him, he skips up the stair, O, death and distraction! the rival is there: To his arm the adored one confidingly clings, And a glance of defiance at Vivian he flings, As who should insinuate, “Dogs have their day. But this is not yours, my bold Vivian de Grey!“ Yet forget not, fond swain, that there’s many a slip ’Twixt the rosiest cup and the hairiest lip; Presume not on bridal before you are match’d, And count not your chickens before they are hatch’d! If the winner be here, and I thought you could pay, I’d take very short odds, and name Vivian de Grey.

Now in old dreary times of the grave minuet You might not claim one partner for every set; Still less in these charming affectionate days, When the dances put lovers so much ci leur aise; So the life of your life you must bear as you may To see clasp’d by the biceps of Vivian de Grey.

See the woo’d and the wooer whirl on face to face, Till his pectoral powers are tried by the pace. Now he looks at his boot and he toys with his glove, Is he weary with dancing or breathless with love? Ah, those faltering accents, too plainly they say, “Would you gladden the halls of Sir Vivian de Grey?”