Shakespeare:
Still the fever and you will find the tenderness. Each time I meet you I have to win you anew, and that exasperates desire; but give yourself freely to me, and I will love you better than you love yourself.
Miss Fitton:
Violent desire soon burns itself out.
Shakespeare:
When I am burnt out and dead—not before. Do not distrust desire, sweet; ’tis the spring of life, the wing that lifts the clay [Takes her in his arms and kisses her. She draws herself free.]
Shakespeare:
Again you move away.
Miss Fitton:
Men and women love differently, I think. You would kiss and kiss while I draw back half shrinking, half because I would taste this new joy sweet by sweet. There! You make me say too much.