Time treads o'er the grave of Affection;
Sweet honey is turned into gall.
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you danced at our Ball.

You once could be pleased with our ballads--
To-day you have critical ears:
You once could be charmed with our salads--
Alas! you've been dining with Peers--
You trifled and flirted with many---
You've forgotten the when and the how--
There was _one_ you liked better than any--
Perhaps you've forgotten _her_ now.
But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song--
They tell me (and what does it matter?)
You like to be praised by the throng--
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you're loved by a Blue--
They tell me you're sadly immoral,
Dear Clarence, _that_ cannot be true!
But to me you are still what I found you
Before you grew clever and tall--
And you'll think of the spell that once bound you--
And you'll come--_won't_ you come?--to our Ball!