Her people come from Northern Thrace;
You ought to hear her play piano.
If she would like my suicide--
If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing,
Me for a glass of cyanide,
Or something.

LYDIA

Now Calais, the handsome son
Of old Ornitus, has _me_ going;
He says I am his honey bun,
He's mine, however winds are blowing;
I think that he is awful nice,
And, if the gods the signal gave him,
I'd just as lieve die once or twice
To save him.

HORACE

Suppose I'm gone on you again,
Suppose I've got ingrown affection
For you; I sort of wonder, then,
If you'd have any great objection.
Suppose I pass this Chloe up
And say:"Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye!"
Would that drop sweetness in your cup?
Eh, Lydia?

LYDIA