"I pray you, master carpenter, hang me up a moon" He brushes his hair. This is unusual and he finds a knot that is harder than any Gordian knot whatsoever. He smoothes and strokes his whiskers. He goes so far as to slap himself for dust. He puts a sprig of flowers—amazing!—in the front of his cloak. He practices a smile and gesture. He seems to speak. He claps his hand upon his heart. Ah, my dear sir, we have guessed your secret. The wind, as yet, blows from the south, but a pirate waits not upon the spring. His lover's oath pops out before the daffodil. I pray you, master carpenter, hang me up a moon.
And now the Duke stands before us the King of smiles. His is the wooer's posture. He speaks, but not with his usual voice of command. Oberon, as it were, calls Titania to the woodland when stars are torch and candle to the sleeping world.)
Duke: Betsy! Betsy!
(She appears. The Duke wears a silly smile. But did not Bottom in an ass's head win the fairy princess? A moon, sweet sir! And now—suddenly!—the magic night dissolves into coarsest day.)
Duke: Would yer like ter be the Duchess?
(This is abrupt and unusual, but nice customs curtsy to Dukes as well as Kings.)
Duke: I 'm askin' yer, Betsy. Yer ol' Duke is askin' yer. I 'm lovin' yer. Yer ol' Duke is lovin' yer. I 'll do the right thing by yer. I 'll marry yer. There! I 've said it. When yer married yer can jest set on a cushion without nothin' ter do—(reflectively) nothin' 'cept cookin' and washin' and darnin'. Does yer jump at me, Betsy?
(I confess, myself, a mere man, unable to analyze Betsy's emotions. She stands staring at the Duke, as you or I might stare at a hippopotamus in the front hall. I have bitten my pencil to a pulp—the maker's name is quite gone—but I can think of no lines that are adequate. Her first surprise, however, turns to amusement.)
Duke: Ain 't yer a kind o' hankerin' fer me? Come ter me arms, sweetie, and confess yer blushin' love. I 'm askin' yer. I 'm askin' yer ter be the Duchess.