HOHENZOLL. Damn it, then, tell me! I can't guess the face!
What lady do you mean?
THE PRINCE. Well, never mind.
The name has slipped from me since I awoke,
And goes for little in the story.
HOHENZOLLERN. Well,
Let's have it then!
THE PRINCE. But now, don't interrupt me!—
And the Elector of the Jovelike brow,
Holding a wreath of laurel in his hand,
Stands close beside me, and the soul of me
To ravish quite, twines round the jeweled band
That hangs about his neck, and unto one
Gives it to press upon my locks—Oh, friend!
HOHENZOLL. To whom?
THE PRINCE. Oh, friend!
HOHENZOLLERN. To whom then? Come, speak up!
THE PRINCE. I think it must have been the Platen girl.
HOHENZOLL. Platen? Oh, bosh! Not she who's off in Prussia?
THE PRINCE. Really, the Platen girl. Or the Ramin?