Do you remember our charming times,
When we were both at the age which knows,
Of all the pleasures of Paris, none
Like making love in one’s Sunday clo’es;
When all your birthdays, added to mine,
A total of forty would not bring,
And when, in our humble and cosey roost,
All, even the Winter, to us was Spring?
Rare days! then prudish Manuel stalked,
Paris feasted each saintsday in;