I'll be as others are in your mad world,
Or wither mortally, even as the sprig
A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough.
Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be
Dear playmates ever, never growing old,—
Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace
Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us
To come at will.
Hen. No, Glaia. Even now
I must be gone. I came for this—to say