t and low, and cackling hens that cannot
make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge
me not a short hour of its music.

THE LADY. Sir: you are overbold. Season your admiration for a while
with--

THE MAN. _[holding up his hand to stop her]_ "Season your admiration
for a while--"

THE LADY. Fellow: do you dare mimic me to my face?

THE MAN. Tis music. Can you not hear? When a good musician sings a
song, do you not sing it and sing it again till you have caught and
fixed its perfect melody? "Season your admiration for a while": God!
the history of man's heart is in that one word admiration.
Admiration! _[Taking up his tablets]_ What was it? "Suspend your
admiration for a space--"

THE LADY. A very vile jingle of esses. I said "Season your--"

THE MAN. _[hastily]_ Season: ay, season, season, season. Plague on
my memory, my wretched memory! I must een write it down. _[He begins
to write, but stops, his memory failing him]._ Yet tell me which was
the vile jingle? You said very justly: mine own ear caught it even
as my false tongue said it.

THE LADY. You said "for a space." I said "for a while."

THE MAN. "For a while" _[he corrects it]._ Good! _[Ardently]_ And
now be mine neither for a space nor a while, but for ever.

THE LADY. Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave?

THE MAN. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at
your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets such store by an apt
word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--no: I have
said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you
must be fire-new--

THE LADY. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more
accustomed to be listened to than preached at.

THE MAN. The most are like that that do talk well. But though you
spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am
the king of words--

THE LADY. A king, ha!

THE MAN. No less. We are poor things, we men and women--

THE LADY. Dare you call me woman?

THE MAN. What nobler name can I tender you? How else can I love you?
Yet you may well shrink from the name: have I not said we are but
poor things? Yet there is a power that can redeem us.

THE LADY. Gramercy for your sermon, sir. I hope I know my duty.

THE MAN. This is no sermon, but the living truth. The power I speak
of is the power of immortal poesy. For know that vile