It shuts itself up and waits his return.

Ah,-true flower, dear flower, how unlike a man you are!" "Helene," said I, "you have learned conceits from the catch-books.

You quarrel by rote.

Were I as eager to answer me, I might say: 'Ah, false flower, you grow out of the foulness underneath.

You give your fragrance to all without discretion--a common lover, prodigal of favors, fit only to be torn to shreds by pretty, spiteful fingers, and to die at last with a lie in your mouth.