None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.
They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song—
They tell me (and what does it matter?)
You like to be praised by the throng—
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you're loved by a Blue—
They tell me you're sadly immoral,
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!