"Dear Jack:
It's delightfully gay here,—
Old Paris seemed never so fine,—
And mamma says we're going to stay here,
And papa—well, papa sips his wine
And says nothing. You know him of old, dear.
He's only too happy to rest,—
After making three millions in gold, dear.
He's played out, it must be confessed,—
And I—I'm to wed an old Baron
Three weeks from to-day, in great style
(He's as homely and gaunt as old Charon,
And they say that his past has been vile);
And I've promised to cut you hereafter,—
Small chance, though, we ever shall meet,—
So let's turn our old love into laughter,
And face the thing through. Shall we, sweet?
Can you give me up, Jack, to this roué,
Just because we may always be poor?
There's still enough time, dear, et tu es
Un brave,—you will come, I am sure.
Put your trunk on the swiftest Cunarder,
And don't give me up, Jack, for—well,
There are things in this world that are harder
Than poverty. Come to me!