Ah, ladies, every mortal has a small Private celestial empire in his heart. There bud such shoots in thousands, kept apart By Shyness’s soon shatter’d Chinese Wall. But in her dim fantastic temple bower The little Chinese puppet sits and sighs, A dream of far-off wonders in her eyes— And in her hand a golden tulip flower. For _her_ the tender firstling tendrils grew;— Rich crop or meagre, what is that to you? Instead of it we get an after crop They kick the tree for, dust and stalk and stem,— As hemp to silk beside what goes to them— GULDSTAD. That is the black tea. FALK [_nodding_]. That’s what fills the shop. A GENTLEMAN. There’s beef tea too, that Holberg says a word of— MISS JAY [_sharply_]. To modern taste entirely out of date. FALK. And a _beef love_ has equally been heard of, Wont—in romances—to brow-beat its mate, And still they say its trace may be detected Amongst the henpecked of the married state. In short there’s likeness where ’twas least expected. So, as you know, an ancient proverb tells, That something ever passes from the tea Of the bouquet that lodges in its cells, If it be carried hither over sea. It must across the desert and the hills,— Pay toll to Cossack and to Russian tills;— It gets their stamp and licence, that’s enough, We buy it as the true and genuine stuff. But has not Love the self-same path to fare? Across Life’s desert? How the world would rave And shriek if you or I should boldly bear Our Love by way of Freedom’s ocean wave! “Good heavens, his moral savour’s passed away, “And quite dispersed Legality’s bouquet!”— STRAWMAN [_rising_]. Yes, happily,—in every moral land Such wares continue to be contraband! FALK.