To-night, when my head aches indeed,
And I can either think nor read,
And these blue fingers will not hold
The pen—(this attic’s freezing cold)—
I tell you, I pace up and down
This garret, crowned with love’s best crown,
And feasted with love’s perfect feast,
To think I bear for him at least.
—Browning.
When they re-entered the ballroom the revelry was still at its height. Six cotillions were on the floor.