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To a garden full of posies &emsp;Cometh one to gather flowers, &emsp;And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, &emsp;Who, uprising from their beds, &emsp;Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting—never doubting &emsp;That for Cytherean posies &emsp;He would gather aught but roses!

In a nest of weeds and nettles, &emsp;Lay a violet, half-hidden, &emsp;Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals. &emsp;Though she lived alone, apart, &emsp;Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas, the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, &emsp;For he gathered for his posies &emsp;Only roses—only roses! [Bursts into tears.

Enter

A maiden, and in tears? Can I do aught to soften thy sorrow? This apple— [Offering apple.]

[Examines it and rejects it.] No! [Mysteriously.] Tell me, are you mad?

I? No! That is, I think not.

That's well! Then you don't love Sir Despard Murgatroyd? All mad girls love him. I love him. I'm poor Mad Margaret—Crazy Meg—Poor Peg! He! he! he! he! [Chuckling.

Thou lovest the bad Baronet of Ruddigore? Oh, horrible—too horrible!

You pity me? Then be my mother! The squirrel had a