STRÜBEL. I shall begin again.
| "Twenty roses nestling close |
| Gleam upon thy breast, |
| Twenty years of rose-red love |
| Upon thy fair cheeks rest. |
| "Twenty years would I gladly give |
| Out of life's brief reign, |
| Could I but ask a rose of thee |
| And ask it not in vain. |
| "Twenty roses thou dost not need— |
| Why, pearls and rubies are thine! |
| With nineteen thou'dst be just as fair, |
| And one would then be mine! |
| "And twenty years of rose-wreathed joy |
| Would spring to life for me— |
| Yet twenty years could ne'er suffice |
| To worship it—and thee!" |
THE PRINCESS. How nice that is! I've never had any verses written to me b——
STRÜBEL. Ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their own verse-making!
THE PRINCESS. And all for one rose! Dear me, how soon it fades! And then what is left you?
STRÜBEL. No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades—even as my love for the gracious giver can never die.
THE PRINCESS. But you haven't even got it yet!
STRÜBEL. That makes no difference in the end. I'm entirely independent of such externals. When some day I shall be explaining Ovid to the beginners, or perhaps even reading Horace with the more advanced classes—no, it's better for the present not to think of reaching any such dizzy heights of greatness—well, then I shall always be saying to myself with a smile of satisfaction: "You, too, were one of those confounded artist fellows—why, you once went so far as to love a princess!"
THE PRINCESS. And that will make you happy?