  Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it— Under the anger. But see what came out of it! Not a knave, he!—A Romeo rhyme-smatterer, Cloaking in languor And heartache to flatter her. And just as a woman will—even the best of them— She yielded—brittle. God spare me the rest of them! Aye! though 'twas but kisses—she swore!—he had of her. For, was it little? She thought 'twas not bad of her, Said I would lavish a burning hour full On any grissette. A parry!—and powerful! But—"You are mine, and blood is inflammable, Flaunty Lissette!" My rage was undammable.... Could a stilletto's one prick be prettier? Look at the gaping. No?—then you're her pitier! Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner. Loose me the strapping— I'll lay one more kiss on her. |
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