True. Yet that’s a trifle to the dance; down which
She floats as though she were a form of air;
The ground feels not her foot, or tells not on’t;
Her movements are the painting of the strain,
Its swell, its fall, its mirth, its tenderness!
Then is she fifty Constances!—each moment
Another one, and each, except its fellow,
Without a peer! You have danced with her!
Wild. I hate
To dance! I can’t endure to dance!—Of course
You have danced with her?
True. I have.
Wild. You have?
True. I have.
Wild. I do abominate to dance!—could carve
Fiddlers and company! A dancing man
To me was ever like a dancing dog!
Save less to be endured.—Ne’er saw I one
But I bethought me of the master’s whip.
True. A man might bear the whip to dance with her!
Wild. Not if I had the laying of it on!
True. Well; let that pass. The lady is the theme.
Wild. Yes; make an end of it!—I’m sick of it. [Aside.]