The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When first I told my tale: they meant, you know,
“The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
Well, he can say no other than what he says.
We have been young, too,—come, there’s greater guilt!
Let him but decently disembroil himself,
Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!”
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast