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Rh In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good, The means are excellent; but the man, the man— Heaven help us both,—I am near as mad as he, In loving such an one.’ She slowly wrung Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile, As reasonably sorry for herself; And thus continued,— ‘Of a truth, Miss Leigh, I have not, without a struggle, come to this. I took a master in the German tongue, I gamed a little, went to Paris twice; But, after all, this love! . . . you eat of love, And do as vile a thing as if you ate Of garlic—which, whatever else you eat, Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach Reminds you of your onion! Am I coarse? Well, love’s coarse, nature’s coarse—ah there’s the rub! We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows From flying over,—we’re as natural still As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly In Lyons’ velvet,—we are not, for that, Lay-figures, like you! we have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts, As ready for distracted ends and acts As any distressed sempstress of them all That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love And other fevers, in the vulgar way. Love will not be outwitted by our wit,