It is laid with this kiss on your fingers—
A jest at the most.
’Tis a commonplace, stale situation,
Now the curtain comes down from above
On the end of our little flirtation—
A travesty romance for Love,
If he climbed in disguise to your lattice,
Fell dead of the first kisses’ pain:
But one thing is left us now; that is—
Begin it again.