And cast it from me!—but no—no, you 'll not
Repeat that?—will you, Mildred, repeat that?
Mil. Dear Henry!
Mer. I was scarce a boy—e'en now
What am I more? And you were infantine
When first I met you; why, your hair fell loose
On either side! My fool's-cheek reddens now
Only in the recalling how it burned
That morn to see the shape of many a dream
—You know we boys are prodigal of charms