Mad, I? Yes, very! But why? Mystery! Don't call! Whisht! whisht! No crime— 'Tis only That I'm Love-lonely! That's all! BALLAD—MARGARET. To a garden full of posies Cometh one to gather flowers, And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, Who, uprising from their beds, Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting—never doubting That for Cytherean posies He would gather aught but roses! In a nest of weeds and nettles Lay a violet, half-hidden, Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals. Though she lived alone, apart, Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas, the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, For he gathered for his posies Only roses—only roses! (Bursts into tears.) (Enter Rose.) ROSE. A maiden, and in tears? Can I do aught to soften thy sorrow? This apple—(offering apple). MAR. (Examines it and rejects it.) No! (Mysteriously.) Tell me, are you mad? ROSE. I? No! That is, I think not. MAR. That's well! Then you don't love Sir Despard Murgatroyd? All mad girls love him. I love him. I'm poor Mad Margaret—Crazy Meg—Poor Peg! He! he! he! he! (chuckling). ROSE. Thou lovest the bad Baronet of Ruddigore? Oh, horrible—too horrible! MAR. You pity me? Then be my mother! The squirrel had a mother, but she drank and the squirrel fled! Hush! They sing a brave song in our parts—it runs somewhat thus: (Sings.) "The cat and the dog and the little puppee Sat down in a—down in a—in a——