Thinks she that e'en such eyes can please,
Beaming—there is no word—like this?"
"Look on that singer at the harp,
Of her you cannot speak thus—ah, no!"
—"Her! why she's formed of flat and sharp—
I doubt not she's a fine soprano!"
"The next?"—"What, she who lowers her eyes
From sheer mock-modesty—so pert,
So doubtful-mannered?—I despise
Her, and all like her—she's a Flirt!