Otto. I love you, Clytie.
[Exeunt.
Tramp. Butterflies! That’s what they are. Butterflies, playin’. I’d like to stay ’ere and watch ’em if I wasn’t so—Never mind; they can kick me out if they like. I’ll lie down ’ere, comfortable.—’Pon my soul, I will. (He takes and arranges the cushions) (Sleepily) All right—that’s what it is; all right.
Enter Felix—a poet butterfly.
Felix. (Ecstatically) Iris! Iris! Where are you, Iris? If only I could find a rhyme for you!
All I desire is Beautiful Iris ...
No, that’s wretched, commonplace.
The star to whom my thoughts aspire is Iris, Iris, radiant Iris.
That’s no better. I know! She will reject my passion and I shall then produce an exquisite lament. For instance,—
If only thou wert ill, hard-hearted Iris! Then I could melt thee with my kind inquiries ...