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.