“Oh, most dear lady!” said Ferdinand, “the sun will set before I can finish what I must strive to do.”
“If you will sit down,” said Miranda, “I will carry your logs the while. Pray give me that; I will carry it to the pile.”
“No, dear lady, I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, than that you should undergo such dishonour while I sit lazy by.”
“It would become me as well as it does you,” said Miranda, “and I would do it the more easily, because I want to do it and you do not. You look weary.”
“No, noble lady; when you are near me the night becomes fresh morning,” said Ferdinand. “I do beseech you—chiefly that I may set it in my prayers—what is your name?”
“Miranda.”
“Admired Miranda! Dearest name in the world!” cried Ferdinand. “Many gentle ladies I have been pleased to see and to talk with, and I have liked different women for different virtues; but never until now have I found one without some defect. But you—oh, you, so perfect and so peerless!—are created the best of every creature!”
“I do not know any other woman,” said Miranda simply. “I remember no woman’s face save, from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen others that I may call men, except you, good friend, and my dear father. I do not know what they may be like, but, in simple truth, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can I imagine anyone whose look I would like better. But I prattle too wildly, and in that forget my father’s precepts.”
