Macaroni meant to slay.
Did I kill him? Say, my fair one,
You with Gorgonzola’s eyes,
Did I make him drink the poison?
Answer—you who were the prize.
Well, the tale is nearly ended—
Strange that I should live to-night,
Dining in La Ria’s with you.
Thanks! that cognac’s out of sight.”
A roar of delight rewarded the poet’s effort; and he reseated himself smilingly, while the dark-eyed maiden at his table—who, by the way, went by the name of “Gorgonzola” ever after—raised her liqueur glass, and drank gratefully to the genius who had done what he could to immortalize her beauty.