MÍTYA. I made these verses just for you.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Trying to hide her joy] Still, it may be just some sort of foolishness—not worth reading.
MÍTYA. That I cannot judge, because I wrote it myself, and without studying besides.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Read it.
MÍTYA. Directly.
Seats himself at the table, and takes the paper: LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA approaches very near to him.
"In the meadow no grasses wither,
And never a flower doth fade;
However a fair lad fadeth
That once was a lusty blade.
He loved a handsome damsel;
For that his grief is great,
And heavy his misfortune,
For she came of high estate.
The lad's heart is breaking,
But vain his grief must be,
Because he loved a damsel
Above his own degree.
When all the night is darkened
The sun may not appear;
And so the pretty maiden.
She may not be his dear."