Falk.
So many heads, so many sentences!
No, you all grope and blunder off the line.
Each simile’s at fault; I’ll tell you mine;—
You’re free to turn and wrest it as you please.
[Rises as if to make a speech.
In the remotest east there grows a plant;
And the sun’s cousin’s garden is its haunt—
The Ladies.
Ah, it’s the tea-plant!