At some voluptuous feast, Caesar Borgia and his sister, sitting crowned with roses, side by side, may have pressed it upon a reluctant guest, who had, perhaps, a treasure of his own.

I dare swear Rene, the Florentine, hath fingered many such a goblet before it went to whom Catherine de' Medici delighted to honor." "She had the whitest hands," maundered the Secretary.

"I kissed them once before she died, in Blois, when I was young.

Rene was one of your slow poisoners.

Smell a rose, draw on a pair of perfumed gloves, drink from a certain cup, and you rang your own knell, though your bier might not receive you for many and many a day,--not till the rose was dust, the gloves lost, the cup forgotten." "There's a fashion I have seen followed abroad, that I like," I said.
"Host and guest fill to each other, then change tankards.