Iris. Do you think so? What about
‘shall surely lie When love is’—
you know!
Felix. Don’t, Iris—not again.
Iris. Make a poem for me, quickly. Something passionate.
Felix. Now that at last we have met, Think you I care what may follow? Let me be snared in a net, Let me be snapped by a swallow— I shall have tasted of bliss, I shall have flown where the fire is. Ah, could we die in a kiss, Beautiful exquisite Iris!
Iris. How perfect!
Clytie. (Outside) Iris! Iris!
Iris. That tiresome Clytie—with that awful hanger-on of hers—just as we—