Ballad
Mar.
To a garden full of posies
Cometh one to gather flowers,
And he wanders through its bowers
Toying with the wanton roses,
Who, uprising from their beds,
Hold on high their shameless heads
With their pretty lips a-pouting,
Never doubting—never doubting
That for Cytherean posies
He would gather aught but roses!
In a nest of weeds and nettles,
Lay a violet, half-hidden,
Hoping that his glance unbidden
Yet might fall upon her petals.
Though she lived alone, apart,
Hope lay nestling at her heart,
But, alas, the cruel awaking
Set her little heart a-breaking,
For he gathered for his posies
Only roses—only roses! [Bursts into tears.
Enter Rose
Rose. A maiden, and in tears? Can I do aught to soften thy sorrow? This apple— [Offering apple.]
Mar. [Examines it and rejects it.] No! [Mysteriously.] Tell me, are you mad?
Rose. I? No! That is, I think not.
Mar. That's well! Then you don't love Sir Despard Murgatroyd? All mad girls love him. I love him. I'm poor Mad Margaret—Crazy Meg—Poor Peg! He! he! he! he