Well, then, to heed thy prayer. I’ve heard it rumored that poets, in their grammar, all the moods of love do conjugate in swift succession.
Ideal.
I’ll prove to thee that gossip is untrue.
Violet.
I’ve heard that they are variable; that they contract the four seasons into the compass of a day,—call the morning spring, the forenoon summer, the afternoon autumn, and the evening oft the depth of winter; that they in idle ways say thus: Why, prithee, this forenoon, being in love beneath the equator, I felt the fervent sun impart his fever to the earth; but to-night, alack! being out of love, Lapland hath no denizen colder than I. I pray thou wilt not treat me so.
Ideal.
By Heaven, ’tis a scandal! I’d have thee try me. Use pique, jest, coldness, stratagem, and all the dire weapons in a maid’s armory to try her lover, and if, knowing thou art true, I do not in all love’s humors love thee still, why then—
Violet.
Yes, why then—
Ideal.