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.