So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly.
"It's a British drama, wholly, written quite in days of yore.
'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!"
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was poor; Very flat and nothing more.)
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center'd
In her figure and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, "Glance a minute at your play-bill I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore. Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore!"
Then I asked in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—
"Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?"
(With a bust of Julius Csesar up above the study door.) Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore."
