As they sipped their tea round the table,
Their talk was of Love alone;
The gentlemen's arguments were able,
The ladies', more tender in tone.

“Love surely should be platonic,”
Said the Councillor wizened and dry;
His consort's smile was ironic,
Yet she none the less sighed a sigh.

Quoth the ponderous Canon clearly:
“Love must not be gross, you know,
Or health will suffer severely.”
The young lady simpered: “How so?”

Cried the Countess in accents heart-rending:
“Love, love seems resistless to me!”
And, graciously unbending,
She handed the Baron his tea.

You were missing amid the tattle;
One chair stood empty, my Love.
How pretty had been your prattle,
My sweetest, about your love.