De lady take hors d’œuvres? and de gentleman too?
Per due! Due! Echo answers: Du’ . . .
“So, Jenny, you’ve found another Perfect Man.”
“Perfect, perhaps; but not so sweet as you,
Not such a baby.” “Me? A baby. Why,
I am older than the rocks on which I sit. . . .”
Oh, how delightful, talking about oneself!
Golden wine, pale as a Tuscan primitive,
And wine’s strange taste, half loathsome, half delicious:
Come, my Lesbia, let us love and live.