Her eyes are flirtations, she bids me look
but I am not convinced that this is right
So I feign to be buried in my book
Feign she is not so lustrous in my sight
She may not be a virtuous maiden
but appearances are judged so unfair
Why is she here but to parade in
my view? How can I not return her stare?
Her glances grow sparing, I have lost her
interest; now, she has now company
and I have played my game too well. I stir,
but I am invisible; poetry
is no substitute for conversation
If beckon'd by a maid's invitation.