LISETTE

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.