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Poem	You like not that French novel? Tell me why. You think it quite unnatural. Let us see. The actors are, it seems, the usual three: Husband, and wife, and lover. She--but fie! In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond, The lover, her devout chagrin doth share; Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare, Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond: So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif. Meantime the husband is no more abused: Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used. Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:-- If she will choose between them. She does choose; And takes her husband, like a proper wife. Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.
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