Lucile

“ALFREDPooh!Pray would you have had her dress always in black,And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.JOHN.Most likely. How was it?ALFRED.The tale is soon spoken.She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see,Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas sheBy whom to that crisis the matter was brought.She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought,With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course,The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse,And declare myself uncomprehended. And soWe parted. The rest of the story you know.””

— Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton

“O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, Blessed hour of our dinners! The land of his birth; The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes; The sermon he heard when to church he last went; The money he borrow'd, the money he spent;”

— Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton

“I swear I have wander'd about in the world everywhere; From many strange mouths have heard many strange tongues; Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my lungs; Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own; In many a language groaned many a groan; And have often had reason to curse those wild fellows Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd jealous, Making human audacity stumble and stammer When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar. But the language of languages dearest to me Is that in which once, O ma toute cherie, When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for hours, You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd Je t'aime. The Italians have voices like peacocks; the Spanish Smell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and Danish Have something too Runic, too rough and unshod, in Their accents for mouths not descended from Odin; German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheezing And coughing; and Russian is nothing but sneezing; But, by Belus and Babel! I never have heard, And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word Of that delicate idiom of Paris without Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt, By the wild way in which my heart inwardly flutter'd That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been utter'd And whene'er I hear French spoken as I approve I feel myself quietly falling in love.””

— Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton

“ALFRED. Pooh! Pray would you have had her dress always in black, And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack? Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken. JOHN. Most likely. How was it? ALFRED. The tale is soon spoken. She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next? She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd. I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry. I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd. At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason. In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, And declare myself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the story you know.””

— Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton