But did not I devotion prove,
Last Sunday, at the Stanhope Arms?
My rival order’d tea for four,
The waiter at his bidding laid it;
He generously ran the score,
But, Mary, I did more,—I paid it.
I know he’s dashing, bold, and free,
A front of Jove, an eye of fire;
But should he say he loves like me,
I’d, like Apollo, strike the lyre.