Yar. My mind has been so busy, that I almost forgot even you. I wish you had stayed with me—You would have seen such sights!
Inkle. Those sights have become familiar to me, Yarico.
Yar. And yet I wish they were not—You might partake my pleasures—but now again, methinks, I will not wish so—for, with too much gazing, you might neglect poor Yarico.
Inkle. Nay, nay, my care is still for you.
Yar. I am sure it is: and if I thought it was not, I would tell you tales about our poor old grot—bid you remember our palm-tree near the brook, where in the shade you often stretched yourself, while I would take your head upon my lap, and sing my love to sleep. I know you'll love me then.
SONG.
Our grotto was the sweetest place!
The bending boughs, with fragrance blowing,
Would check the brook's impetuous pace,
Which murmur'd to be stopp'd from flowing.