By some sly trick of dew and sun.
Pilgrim. A poet.
Shepherd. Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flocks on yonder plain
Naught else I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed you marked her well
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwells here—in Arcady?
Pilgrim. Her skin was the satin bark of birches.
Shepherd. Light or dark?