How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts, Still hold the Queen of Hearts?
I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze, Resolved to fathom these your secret ways: But, sift them as I will, Your ways are secret still.
I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again; But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain: Vain hope, vain forethought too; The Queen still falls to you.
I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal Was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel: 'There should be one card more,' You said, and searched the floor.
I cheated once; I made a private notch In Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch; Yet such another back Deceived me in the pack:
The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown An imitative dint that seemed my own; This notch, not of my doing, Misled me to my ruin.
It baffles me to puzzle out the clue, Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you: Unless, indeed, it be Natural affinity.