ALL THE DIFFERENCE.
If half the things that Chloe says to me,
If half the pretty kindnesses she shows,
By Phyllida were shown or said,
Without a tremor I would stake my head
That I securely might propose
That she my bride would be.
Yet why? I know full well that Chloe means
Nothing at all. 'Tis but her buoyant way,
Her frank "The best of friends, that's all."
And yet the stricter Grundy 'twould appal
To hear the tender things we say
Between our quarrel-scenes.
If one full-leaping pulse's beat
Beyond the coldest courtesy's demand
I trespass on sweet Phyllida's coy hand,
The thrill is shivered by her quick retreat,
Her fingers stiffen like a fossil fin,
And I again, a Sisyphus, begin
The task of charming her reserve austere,
Palsied by Love's false fear,
Which drives the lover's chances down to zero.
While some cadaverous and long-chinn'd hero
Talks from a height rais'd by his own conceit,
And my white goddess listens at his feet.
