When I spoke to her first, her eye flashed so, I heard--as I fancied--the spark whiz From her eyelid--I said so next day to that jealous old fool of a Marquis. She reminded me, Bill, of a lovely volcano, whose entrails are lava-- Or (you know my _penchant_ for original types) of the upas in Java. In the curve of her sensitive nose was a singular species of dimple, Where the flush was the mark of an angel's creased kiss--if it wasn't a pimple. Now I'm none of your bashful John Bulls who don't know a pilau from a puggaree Nor a chili, by George, from a chopstick. So, sir, I marched into her snuggery, And proposed a light supper by way of a finish. I treated her, Bill, To six _entrees_ of ortolans, sprats, maraschino, and oysters. It made her quite ill. Of which moment of sickness I took some advantage. I held her like this, And availed myself, sir, of her sneezing, to shut up her lips with a kiss. The waiters, I saw, were quite struck; and I felt, I may say, _entre nous_, Like Don Juan, Lauzun, Almaviva, Lord Byron, and old Richelieu. (You'll observe, Bill, that rhyme's quite Parisian; a Londoner, sir, would have cited old Q. People tell me the French in my verses recalls that of Jeames or John Thomas: I Must maintain it's as good as the average accent of British diplomacy.) These are moments that thrill the whole spirit with spasms that excite and exalt. I stood more than the peer of the great Casanova--you know--de Seingalt. She was worth, sir, I say it without hesitation, two brace of her sisters. Ah, why should all honey turn rhubarb--all cherries grow onions--all kisses leave blisters? Oh, and why should I ask myself questions? I've heard such before--once or twice. Ah, I can't understand it--but, O, I imagine it strikes me as nice. There's a deity shapes us our ends, sir, rough-hew them, my boy, how we will-- As I stated myself in a poem I published last year, you know, Bill-- Where I mentioned that that was the question--to be, or, by Jove, not to be. Ah, it's something--you'll think so hereafter--to wait on a poet like me. Had I written no more than those verses on that Countess I used to call Pussy-- Yes, Minette or Manon--and--you'll hardly believe it--she said they were all out of Musset. Now I don't say they weren't--but what then? and I don't say they were--I'll bet pounds against pennies on The subject--I wish I may never die Laureate, if some of them weren't out of Tennyson. And I think--I don't like to be certain, with Death, so to speak, by me, frowning-- But I think there were some--say a dozen, perhaps, or a score--out of Browning. And--though God knows his poems are not (as all mine are, sir) perfumed with orris-- Or at least with patchouli--I wouldn't be sworn there were none out of Morris. And it's possible--only the legend of Circe is quite an old yarn--old As the hills--that I might have been thinking, perhaps, of a poem by Arnold