I hope thou wouldst not jest at love?
Ideal.
Nay, not I. I’d sooner jest at all fair properties in heaven and earth than jest at love.
Violet.
’Tis a flower of ancient lineage. I planted it with mine own hands, and watched it grow. What joy I felt to see it grow, I ne’er can tell. When first its tender bud beseeched the sky, it was athirst; I brought it water from a crystal spring. From simple bud to leafy stalk it grew, and then the petals formed, giving sweet promise of a flower; till yesternight from its green husk the perfect blossom bloomed, and I did shed a tear upon it, thinking of that poor princess.
Ideal.
Dost think her spirit lives in heaven?
Violet.
That do I most truly. I would not that thou thought’st differently. Thou couldst not be so cruel!
Ideal.