Mod. Why?
Helen. Ay, why?—
Women, you know, are fond of reasons—why
Would you not have me marry? How you blush!
Is it because you do not know the reason?
You mind me of a story of a cousin
Who once her cousin such a question asked.
He had not been to college, though—for books,
Had passed his time in reading ladies’ eyes.
Which he could construe marvellously well,
Though writ in language all symbolical.
Thus stood they once together, on a day—
As we stand now—discoursed as we discourse,—
But with this difference,—fifty gentle words
He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him!—
What a dear cousin! Well, as I did say,
As now I questioned thee, she questioned him.
And what was his reply? To think of it
Sets my heart beating—’twas so kind a one!
So like a cousin’s answer—a dear cousin!
A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin!
What did he say?—A man might find it out,
Though never read he Ovid’s Art of Love—
What did he say? He’d marry her himself!
How stupid are you, cousin! Let me go!
Mod. You are not well yet?
Helen. Yes.
Mod. I’m sure you’re not.
Helen. I’m sure I am.
Mod. Nay, let me hold you, cousin! I like it.
Helen. Do you? I would wager you
You could not tell me why you like it. Well?
You see how true I know you! How you stare!
What see you in my face to wonder at?
Mod. A pair of eyes!
Helen. At last he’ll find his tongue—[Aside.]
And saw you ne’er a pair of eyes before?