Cébès: They say
That if in the midst of his path through a dreary solitude,
Of a sudden the wanderer halts at the summons of his heart,
It is love, that locks the man and woman in agonised embrace.
They do not recognise themselves and the lover feels a pang like the stab of a knife beneath his ribs,
And invents those phrases that begin with O,
Imitating the piercing cries of sea-birds, for their silence is like the peace of the waters.
Tête-d'or: What have you to say to me?
Cébès: O Tête-d'or! I am not a woman and neither am I a man,
For I am not of age, and I am already as if I were no more.