Eug. No—to me it seems
A sort of out-court and repository,
Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas,
Too stale and wither’d for the blooming world,
To wear away in.
Clara. I like its quietude;
This pretty garden too.
Eug. A pretty thing
To come for to Madrid—a pretty garden!
I tell you were it fuller of all flowers