If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise.
'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells
Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.
What if, to pique me, she should overstep
The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes
(I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been
And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.
There, now, I wrong her.
Yet if she,
To win the turquoise of me, if she should--
O cursed jewels! Would that they were hung
About the glistening neck of some mermaid
A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!
[A PAGE _crosses the garden_.
That page again! 'Tis twice within the week
The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave
Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour,
Trolling a canzonetta with an air
As if he owned the villa.
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