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.