But when the bird really feels—rage or fear, he shrieks or twitters and forgets his song.
Shakespeare:
He still sings his love.
Miss Fitton:
I’d not give a cross [Snaps her fingers] for love that keeps time. What’s formal and composed’s a pleasure—not a passion. I want prose and truth.
Shakespeare:
Yet they say that men love truth—and women, honeyed flatteries!
Miss Fitton:
[Scornfully.] They say! Men say that; but it is worse than false. No sooner is a man in love than he lies, wheedles, pretends, shows off—for all the world like the peacock in the garden yonder, that sidles round with tail outspread, in stately sweepings. But when we women fall to love, we are too honest to be vain—too fond for make-believe.
Shakespeare: