Iv

Three fistfuls of Louis!--"He'd do it," he said.-- A delicate dust, gum, liquid and metal Crushed, crucibled.... "Stay! tie this mask on your head. You see, but a grain on your rose's pink petal Has shriveled and blasted it--look, how it dries!-- A perilous pulver ... could Satan make better?... To mix with that present of perfumes--she dies, And who is the wiser? Or, say in a letter