THE PARALLEL.

Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;
I try to think in vain, to whom or how
Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.--
I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!

The moon--she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,
By eating stolen bread her living gets,--
Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,
While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.

The moon--for this may Herod give her thanks!--
Reserves her best till night may have returned;
Our lady swallows up by day the francs
That she at night-time may have earned.

The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,
As surely as the month comes round;
With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween--
But she to need more time is found!

The moon to love her silver-horns is said,
But makes a sorry show;
She likes them on her husband's head,--
She's right to have it so