Sylvette. O Monsieur Percinet, how beautiful it is!
Percinet. Isn’t it? Hear Romeo’s reply! (He reads.)
“It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale; look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:
I must be gone....”
Sylvette. (Alert, with animation.) Sh!
Percinet. (Listens a moment, then) No one! So, mademoiselle, don’t have the air of an affrighted birdling on a branch, ready to spread wing at the slightest sound. Hear the immortal lovers talking:
She. “Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch bearer.”
He. “Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye;
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads;
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.”
Sylvette. Oh, no! I won’t have him talk of that; if he does, I shall cry.
Percinet. Then we’ll shut our book till tomorrow, and, since you wish it, let sweet Romeo live.
(He closes the book and looks about him.)
What an adorable spot! It seems made for lulling one’s self with the lines of the great William.[12]