“Why, dear,” said I, “I think that I can love!
You know what Haydn sings,—that maids, like flowers,
Are sweetest, pluck’d when in the bud?”
“There now,
You always will be quoting him!” she cried,—
“Because, forsooth, a man, your first man-friend!
Yet, not compared by you with other men,
How know you him, what sort of man he is?—
Girls unsophisticated are like bees:
They buzz for all, and yet sip all their sweets