Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/436

 But in her dim fantastic temple bower The little Chinese puppet sits and sighs, A dream of far-off wonders in her eyes— And in her hand a golden tulip flower. For her the tender firstling tendrils grew;— Rich crop or meagre, what is that to you? Instead of it we get an after crop They kick the tree for, dust and stalk and stem,— As hemp to silk beside what goes to them—

That is the black tea.

[nodding].

That's what fills the shop.

There's beef tea too, that Holberg says a word of—

[sharply].

To modern taste entirely out of date.

And a beef love has equally been heard of, Wont—in romances—to brow-beat its mate, And still they say its trace may be detected Amongst the henpecked of the married state. In short there's likeness where 'twas least expected.