Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—
Under the anger.
But see what came out of it!
Not a knave, he!—A smitten rhyme-smatterer,
Cloaking in languor
And heartache to flatter her.
And just as a woman will—even the best of them—
She yielded—brittle.
God spare me the rest of them!
For! though but kisses—she swore!—he had of her,
Was it so little?
She thought 'twas not bad of her,
Said I would lavish a burning hour-full
On any grisette.
And silenced me, powerful!
But she was mine, and blood is inflammable—
For a Lisette!
My rage was undammable....
Could a stiletto's one prick be prettier?
Look at the gaping.
No?—then you're her pitier!
Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.
Loose me the strapping—
I'll lay one more kiss on her.