He: Well, how many conquests? I fancy a score
By the flush on your cheeks and your shoulders.
She: A bore!
He: Oh, nonsense; a debutante just out of school
Who can rule with a smile what a king could not rule,
From young Harry, her prince, to myself, her poor fool!
Come, tell me, did Harry propose?
She: What a goose
You would think me to tell you, and then of what use
Could it be?
He: Well, it might give me hope, where before
There was none,—quite a boon from the lips you adore
When you 're hungry for love.
She (coquetting): Or who knows but it might—
He: Yes, it might blot from life every semblance of light
As the clouds blot the moon on a storm-troubled night.
But tell me.
She: He did.
He: And your answer was?
She: No.
He: You mean it, or are you coquetting yet?
She: Oh!
I just told him I cared for another—he smiled.
It was merely to him so much pleasure beguiled
From a girl. Charge it up profit?—loss?—tell me which?
He thinks I am pretty, they say, but, not rich.
He would love me, perhaps, for a season or two,
So I told him that I loved another.
He: And who?
She (archly): Really, must I tell you?
He: No—your finger—yes, this!
A solitaire—done! and now quickly!
She (feigning reluctance): One!
He (ecstatically): Kiss.