Thou dost deceive, not me, but thine own self.
My fate is not a wandering, vagrant elf.
My fate is here, within this throbbing heart
That beats alone for glory, and for art.
Voice
[Another knock at door.]
Pray, let me in; I am so faint and cold.
[Door is pushed ajar. Enter Cupid, who approaches the fire with outstretched hands.]
Maid (indignantly)
Methinks thou art not faint, however cold,
But rather too courageous, and most bold;
Surprisingly ill-mannered, sir, and rude,
Without an invitation to intrude
Into my very presence.
But, you see,
Girls never mind a little chap like me.
They’re always watching for me on the sly,
And hoping I will call.
Maid (haughtily)