That it was hard to part us. But methinks

That something of the rose from off thy cheek

Has faded, and its rounded outline fair

Seems grown a little thinner.

Ire.

Gycia,

26

26

The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more

Grows as before.

Gycia.

Thou strange girl, to put on

Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus

Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen

In love, as girls say—though what it may be

To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,

Having much else to think of.

Ire.

Prithee, dear,

Speak not of this.

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