MARYA. You are making fun of me. You're only ridiculing the provincials.
KHLESTAKOV. Oh, mademoiselle, how I long to be your scarf, so that I might embrace your lily neck.
MARYA. I haven't the least idea what you are talking about—scarf!—Peculiar weather today, isn't it?
KHLESTAKOV. Your lips, mademoiselle, are better than any weather.
MARYA. You are just saying that—I should like to ask you—I'd rather you would write some verses in my album for a souvenir. You must know very many.
KHLESTAKOV. Anything you desire, mademoiselle. Ask! What verses will you have?
MARYA. Any at all. Pretty, new verses.
KHLESTAKOV. Oh, what are verses! I know a lot of them.
MARYA. Well, tell me. What verses will you write for me?
KHLESTAKOV. What's the use? I know them anyway.