Clown. Marry her quick, then, before the poor girl falls into the hands of some oily-headed hermit.
King. She is dependent on her father, and he is not here.
Clown. But how does she feel toward you?
King. My friend, hermit-girls are by their very nature timid. And yet
When I was near, she could not look at me;
She smiled—but not to me—and half denied it;
She would not show her love for modesty,
Yet did not try so very hard to hide it.
Clown. Did you want her to climb into your lap the first time she saw you?
King. But when she went away with her friends, she almost showed that she loved me.
When she had hardly left my side,
"I cannot walk," the maiden cried,
And turned her face, and feigned to free
The dress not caught upon the tree.
Clown. She has given you some memories to chew on. I suppose that is why you are so in love with the pious grove.
King. My friend, think of some pretext under which we may return to the hermitage.