THE MAN. Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then your words drop like honey.
THE LADY. [with cold majesty] Know you to whom you speak, sir, that you dare express yourself so saucily?
THE MAN. [unabashed] Not I, not care neither. You are some lady of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those with excellent voices, sweet 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."