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.
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