[Putting down the mirror.] And so you love me—madly—in an hour?
Shakespeare:
[Taking off the mask.] Ah, lady, Time is love’s plaything—now he presses years into one look, one touch; and now a moment’s kiss swoons out of count—will you not yield to love’s magic?
Miss Fitton:
I don’t think I love easily. But why do you love me?
Shakespeare:
Your beauty, grace, courage, wit—a thousand reasons; but deeper than all reason and higher is love’s throne.
Miss Fitton:
We have a saying in my country, “quick flame soon cold.”
Shakespeare: