Those are the signs of love in man, as in woman. But who made you wise, so young?
Miss Fitton:
Mother Eve, I suppose. The greenest girl knows more about love than your graybeard.
Shakespeare:
True.
Miss Fitton:
[Settling herself, and pointing to the seat.] You may liken me to night if it please you. We dark women are out of favour now: red hair is the Queen’s colour, and Beauty’s ensign: bleached locks, even, are preferred to brown or black.
Shakespeare:
[Taking the chair, and leaning towards her.] I must have been born red, then, to love your great dark eyes, and the coils and tresses of your hair.
Miss Fitton: