Indeed, not I!
My heart has listened to a sweeter voice,
A clarion call that gives command—not choice.
And I have answered to that call, ‘I come’;
To other voices shall my ears be dumb.
To art alone I consecrate my life—
Art is my spouse, and I his willing wife.
Cupid (slowly, gazing in the grate)
Art is a sultan, and you must divide
His love with many another ill-fed bride.
Now I know one who worships you alone.
Maid (impatiently)
I will not listen! for the dice is thrown
And art has won me. On my brow some day
Shall rest the laurel wreath—
Cupid (sitting down and looking at Maid critically)
Just let me say
I think sweet orange blossoms under lace
Are better suited to your type of face.
Maid (ignoring interruption)
I yet shall stand before an audience
That listens as one mind, absorbed, intense,
And with my genius I shall rouse its cheers,
Still it to silence, soften it to tears,
Or wake its laughter. Oh, the play! the play!
The play’s the thing! My boy, the play!!
Cupid (suddenly clapping his hands)