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.. I 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, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. 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, Straying among the alleys with a book,Herrick or Herbert,-watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. 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; |