Cyril, that, duly flattered, took,
As only Cyril’s able,
With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;
Then, having waltzed till every star
Had paled away in morning,
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,—
She made my heart strings quiver;