Methinks our merriment lies stranded, too.
Draw the long table for a game of bowls.
You will be captain, Edward,—Gods! he yawns.
[To Walter.
Your thunder, Jove, has soured these cream-pots all.
MR. WILMOTT.
SCENE IX.
A Lawn—Sunset—Walter lying at Violet's feet.
VIOLET.
You loved, then, very much, this friend of thine?
WALTER.
The sound of his voice did warm my heart like wine.
He's long since dead; but if there is a heaven,
He's in its heart of bliss.