Count.—Pshaw!
Vic.—Beside, all the world expects it you know; I do so hate to fulfil people's expectations: it is so commonplace and humdrum!
Count.—Depend upon it, Lady Victorine, nobody ever expected you to do any thing reasonable or commonplace or humdrum!
(He Sings.)
Archly on thy cheek,
Worth a god's imprinting,
Starry dimples speak,
Rich with rosy tinting,—
What a pity, love,
Anger's burning flushes
E'er should rise above
Those bewitching blushes!
Warm thy lip doth glow,
With such lovely color,
Ruby's heart would show
Hues of beauty duller,—
What a shame, the while,
Scorn should ever curl it,
And o'ercast the smile
That should still enfurl it!
Soft thy dark eye beams,
With the star-night's splendor,
Now with joy it gleams,
Now with tears 'tis tender,—
Ah! what pain to feel,
Ere another minute,
Passion's fire may steal
All the softness in it!
Vic.—There! you can sing! I'll give the——hem!—his due. I only wish you could make love as well as you make verses.
Count.—And how should I make love?
Vic.—How? You should be at my feet all day and under my window all night; you should call black white when I call it so, and—wear a single hair of my eyelash next your heart for ever.