All this is as esy as drink; but it's not poatry, Barnet, nor natural.

People, when their mothers reckonize them, don't howl about the suckumambient air, and paws to think of the happy leaves a-rustling--at least, one mistrusts them if they do.

Take another instans out of your own play.

Capting Norman (with his eternil SLACK-JAW!) meets the gal of his art:-- "Look up, look up, my Violet--weeping?
fie! And trembling too--yet leaning on my breast.
In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter.
Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas, My sailor's bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes?
Nay--From those roses let me, like the bee, Drag forth the secret sweetness! VIOLET.
"Oh what thoughts Were kept for SPEECH when we once more should meet, Now blotted from the PAGE; and all I feel Is--THOU art with me!" Very right, Miss Violet--the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit, pleasing, simple (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, and no harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty; and I can fancy, my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man's face and saying it.

But the capting!--oh, this capting!--this windy, spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies for the hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and his wishes to be a bee! Pish! Men don't make love in this finniking way.