[Gives Chaucer her hand shyly.]
’tis April.
[They dance, in stately fashion, within the arbour. Forgetting themselves in the dance, however, they come a little too far forward; Alisoun spies them, and clapping her hands, the music stops.]
ALISOUN
Caught! Ho, turtle-doves
Come forth, Sir Elvish Knight, Sir Oberon!
Fetch forth thy veilèd nymph, that trips so fair.
[Chaucer steps forth from the arbour. The Prioress, within, seizes up her little hound from a settle and hides her face.]
ALL
Hail!