Say, can I guess the one would be
Your choice among them all--if any?"

"I doubt it,--for I hold as dust
Charms many praise beyond all measure--
While gems they treat as lightly, _must_
Combine to form my chosen treasure."

"Will this do?"--"No;--that hair of gold,
That brow of snow, that eye of splendour,
Cannot redeem the mien so cold,
The air so stiff, so quite _un-tender_."

"This then?"--"Far worse! _Can_ lips like these
Thus smile as though they asked the kiss?--
Thinks she that e'en such eyes can please,
Beaming--there is no word--like _this?_"

"Look on that singer at the harp,
Of her you cannot speak thus--ah, no!"
--"Her! why she's _formed_ of flat and sharp--
I doubt not she's a fine soprano!"

"The next?"--"What, she who lowers her eyes
From sheer mock-modesty--so pert,
So doubtful-mannered?--I despise
Her, and all like her--she's a _Flirt!_

"And this is why my spleen's above
The power of words;--'tis that they can