He only called me darling once! how different from before!

Oh, could it be he liked me less (or other maiden more)?

And was he tired of me—the girl he loved so fondly, dearly?

It could not be! And then he wrote, "I am, Yours most sincerely."

Yes—was he going to fling me off as though a worn-out glove?

You can't do with Sincerity if what you need is Love!

I could not think such ill of him, although it did look queerly,

That in his next the "most" was gone, and he was mine "sincerely."

Yet even then I loved him still, for in the human breast

Hope springs eternal, so I dared to hope on for the best;

And, after all, such things as these ought not to weigh unduly,

But it was more than I could bear to have to read, "Yours truly."

The truth was clear—I quickly sent him back his lovely cartes,

His bangle, and his poetry of Cupid and his darts.

I said to him how grieved I was his love had thus miscarried—

And then I found out everything; alas! the wretch was married.

So here am I, as beautiful as anyone I know,

You couldn't get a better wife, no matter where you go.

And if you know, dear Mr. Punch, a husband, say you've seen a

Nice girl, who'd make him happy and whose name is

ANGELINA.