Seems years—Oh! of course—don’t look spooney,
It isn’t becoming you know.
How bright the stars seem to-night, don’t they?
What was it you said about eyes?
How sweet!—Why you must be a poet—
One never can tell till he tries.
Why can’t you be sensible, Harry?
I don’t like men’s arms on my chair,
Be still, if you don’t stop that nonsense
I’ll get up and leave you, so there!