Walter. Oh!
Were I to live till Time were in his dotage,
'Twould never from mine eyes. Imagine first,
The scene, a gloomy wood; the time, midnight;
Her squawship's maids of honour were the masquers;
Their masks were wolves' heads curiously set on,
And, bating a small difference of hue,
Their dress e'en such as madam Eve had on
Or ere she eat the apple.
Alice. Pshaw!
Walter. These dresses,
All o'er perfum'd with the self-same pomado
Which our fine dames at home buy of old Bruin,
Glisten'd most gorgeously unto the moon.
Thus, each a firebrand brandishing aloft,
Rush'd they all forth, with shouts and frantic yells,
In dance grotesque and diabolical,
Madder than mad Bacchantes.
Alice. O the powers!
Walter. When they had finished the divertisement
A beauteous Wolf-head came to me—
Alice. To you?
Walter. And lit me with her pine-knot torch to bedward,
Where, as the custom of the court it was,
The beauteous Wolf-head blew the flambeau out,
And then—
Alice. Well!
Walter. Then, the light being out, you know,
To all that follow'd I was in the dark.
Now you look grave. In faith I went to sleep.
Could a grim wolf rival my gentle lamb?
No, truly, girl: though in this wilderness
The trees hang full of divers colour'd fruit,
From orange-tawny to sloe-black, egad,
They'll hang until they rot or ere I pluck them,
While I've my melting, rosy nonpareil.
[Kiss.