I brought the bill to your address;

      I was the Mirror’s bill collector —

      In Thespian haunts a more or less

      Familiar spectre.

      On that (to me) momentous day

      You dwelt amid the city’s clatter,

      A few doors west of old Broadway;

      The street – no matter.

      But while you have forgot the debt,

      And him who called in line of duty,

      He never, never shall forget

      Your wondrous beauty.

      You were too fair for mortal speech, —

      Enchanting, positively rippin’;

      You were some dream, and quelque peach,

      And beaucoup pippin.

      Your “fight with Time” had not begun,

      Nor any reason to promote it;

      No beauty battles to be won.

      Beauty? You wrote it!

      “A bill?” you murmured in distress,

      “A bill?” (I still can hear you say it.)

      “A bill from Mr. Fiske? Oh, yes …

      I’ll call and pay it.”

      And he, the thrice-requited kid,

      That such a goddess should address him,

      Could only blush and paw his lid,

      And stammer, “Yes’m!”

      Eheu! It seems a cycle since,

      But still the nerve of memory tingles.

      And here you’re writing Beauty Hints,

      And I these jingles.