Violet.
I think I hear my uncle calling;
I must go. Adieu!
Ideal.
Think not so. I but now called Violet,
And what thou heard’st was the far echo of
Thy name, that’s borne by yonder rock from out
This cheering vale to listening hills beyond.
It is a wanton, merry rock that doth
Delight to sweetly hold discourse in doubling
Of thy name. But as it hath no beard
Upon its face, except a fringe of ferns,
I’ll not be jealous. For such gentle service,
Violet, give not the rock the hardness
Of thy uncle’s heart; but stay.
Violet.
Between thee and the rock, I almost am persuaded.
Ideal.
Sweet Violet, do not go,—be persuaded
Altogether; for although this is
A sheltered glen, with pleasant sunshine tempered,
Yet from thy coldness I would perish as
A homeless midnight traveller, embedded
’Mid bewildering snowbanks.
Violet.