For now was the parting-time;
But she no other answer would give,
Than this distich of mystical rhyme,—
Kind Sir, if the truth I must tell,
At the sign of the Broken-Skimmer I dwell.
Then she flew from the ball, and threw on
Her Catskin cloak again;
And slipt in unseen by the cook,
Who little thought where she had been.
But not by my lord unseen,