"Kiss me!"
"When you fill that basket."
"Not before?"
"Not even a little one," mischief in her glance. Out came the knife and the vintner plied himself furiously. Gretchen had a knife of her own, and she joined him. They laughed gaily. Snip, snip; bunch by bunch the contents of the basket grew.
"There!" he said at last. "That's what I call work; but it is worth it. Now!"
Gretchen saw that it would be futile to hold him off longer; what she would not give he would of a surety take. So she put her hands behind her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin. He kissed not only the lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.
"Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel."
"What are angels like?"
"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."
"Then there are no men angels?"