GILL: And such scrappy bits of love-making you write;
You seem to prefer much describing a fight.
All authors should write what their readers like best;
But authors are selfish, yes--even the best
And you are an author!
MYSELF: Alack, that is true,
And, among other things, I'm the author of you.
GILL: Then, being my author, it's plain as can be
That you are to blame if I'm naughty--not me.
But, father, our Geste, though quite corking in places,
Has too many fights and too little embraces.
You've made all our lovers so frightfully slow,
You ought to have married them pages ago.
The books that are nicest are always the sort
That, when you have read them, seem always too short!
If you make all your readers impatient like me,
They'll buy none of your books--and then where shall we be?
All people like reading of love when they can,
So write them a lot, father, that is the plan.
Go on to the love, then, for every one's sake,
And end with a wedding--
MYSELF: Your counsel I 'll take.
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