Julia. Go on.
Wal. Each side of the chamber shows a different stage
Of this fond page, and fonder lady’s love. [2]
First—no, it is not that.
Julia. Oh, recollect!
Wal. And yet it is.
Julia. No doubt it is. What is ’t?
Wal. He holds to her a salver, with a cup;
His cheeks more mantling with his passion than
The cup with the ruby wine. She heeds him not,
For too great heed of him:—but seems to hold
Debate betwixt her passion and her pride—
That’s like to lose the day. You read it in
Her vacant eye, knit brow, and parted lips,
Which speak a heart too busy all within
To note what’s done without. Like you the tale?
Julia. I list to every word.
Wal. The next side paints
The page upon his knee. He has told his tale;
And found that when he lost his heart, he played
No losing game: but won a richer one!
There may you read in him, how love would seem
Most humble when most bold,—you question which
Appears to kiss her hand—his breath, or lips!
In her you read how wholly lost is she
Who trusts her heart to love. Shall I give o’er?
Julia. Nay, tell it to the end. Is’t melancholy?
Wal. To answer that, would mar the story.