Bertie. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads). "To My Lady."
"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"
Miss Spelw. (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?
Bertie. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.
[He reads.
"Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;