Shakespeare:
Love is its torment.
Violet:
Oh, dear, dear! You will not leave me altogether, will you? Even if you love her, you will let me see you sometimes. No one will ever love you as I do. I only love myself because you like me, and when you leave me, I’ll fall out of conceit with my face, and hate it. Hateful face, that could not please my lord.
Shakespeare:
[Puts his hand on her shoulder.] Vain torment! In this frail hooped breast love flutters and bruises herself like a bird in a cage.
Violet:
When you are near, the pain turns to joy.
Shakespeare:
I know; I know, so well. I’m making you the heroine of the new play I told you of—“Twelfth Night”; your name, too, shall be hers, Viola; but now you must go: I hear them coming.