A stranger intermeddle with its joy?
Eve. My husband, there is more in it than this;
Nay, you are surely, positively sad.
Adam. What if I was (and yet I think I am not),
’Twere but the silly and contrarious mood
Of one whose sympathies refuse to mix
In aught not felt immediate from himself.
But of a truth,
Your joy is greater—mine seems therefore none.
Eve. Nay, neither this I think nor that is true.