We don't love fellows for their skins; we want
Something to wonder at in the way they love.
A chap may be as rough as brick, if you like,
Yes, or a mannikin and grow a tail,--
If he's the spunk in him to love a girl
Mainly and heartily, he's the man for her.--
My soul, I've done with all you pretty men;
I want to stand in a thing as big as a wind;
And I can only get your paper fans!

_Hamish_.
You've done with me? You wicked Jean! You'll dare
To throw me off like this? After you've made,
O, made my whole heart love you?

_Jean_.
You are no good.
Your friend, now, seems a likely man; but you?--
I thought you were a torch; and you're a squib.

_Hamish_.
Not love you enough? Death, I'll show you then.

_Jean_.
Hands off, Hamish. There's smoke in you, I know,
And splutter too. Hands off, I say.

_Hamish_.
By God
Tell me to-morrow there's no force in me!