Till the humor grew to a head and burst,
And she cried, at the final pass,—
"Talk not of God, my heart is stone!
Nor lover nor friend—be gold for both!
Gold I lack; and, my all, my own,
It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth
If they let my hair alone!"
Louis-d'or, some six times five,
And duly double, every piece.
Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive,