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 smitten 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!
For! though but kisses — she swore!— he had of her,
Was it so little?
She thought‘ twas not bad of her,
Said I would lavish a burning hour-full
On any grisette.
And silenced me, powerful!
But she was mine, and blood is inflammable —
For a Lisette!
My rage was undammable....
Could a stiletto'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.