DENISE. I'd rather wear E'en such a patched and melancholy air, As his, that motley one,-who keeps the wall, THE PRINCESS. My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells DENISE. "He loves?-he loves?" Why all this loving 's naught! THE PRINCESS. And "Naught (quoth JACQUOT) makes the sum of Love!" DENISE. The cynic knave! How call you this one here?— And circles, like a cat around a cage, To snatch the surplus. THE PRINCESS. CHERUBIN, the page. 'Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile, And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache DENISE. And these that swim aside—who may these be? THE PRINCESS. Those—are two gentlemen of Picardy, Equal in blood,—of equal bravery:— D'AURELLES and MAUFRIGNAC. They hunt in pair; THE PRINCESS. Ah me !-he will not come ! He swims at large,—looks shyly on,—is dumb. And then-he's modest! So... he will not come ! THE SUNDIAL. IS an old dial, dark with many a stain; TIS In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And round about its gray, time-eaten brow I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,— O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; She, as if listless with a lonely love, Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; |