Eliza D came to see me in despair. "It's Henry," she said. "We're engaged to be married. but whenever I want to talk of love, he starts spouting poems..."
"Which poets?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said, "but he called me his 'bright star' the other day..."
"That's Keats," I said. "I think he loves you."
"Another time, he said 'My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you' but he never touched me."
"Keats again," I told her. "I think you're going to be fine. Marry him!"
"I don't know," she said. "The other day, I decided to test him out by taking off my clothes, but when he should have been getting interested, he sat back and started babbling about unclasping my warmed jewels..."
"That's also Keats," I said. "The Eve of St Agnes, very romantic..."
"You might think it's romantic, but I think he's made of stone, and it's sending me round the twist!"
I stopped her there. "Eliza, old thing, if you can't stand the Keats, get out of the hitching."
No comments:
Post a Comment