MEDON.
You have been frowning and musing in your chair for the last half-hour, with your fore-finger between the leaves of your book—where were your thoughts?
ALDA.
They were far—very far! I am afraid that I appear very stupid?
MEDON.
O not at all! you know there are stars which appear dim and fixed to the eye, while they are taking flights and making revolutions, which imagination cannot follow nor science compute.
ALDA.
Upon my word, you are very sublimely ironical—my thoughts were not quite so far.
MEDON.
May one beg, or borrow them?—What is your book?