A triangle is a sweet instrument in the mathematics of love; for oft, about the first of April nights, I’ve watched the merry wild geese in the sky flying northward in musical and far-sounding triangles.
Whetstone.
I know them well. I have one in my brass band in Cornville.
Violet.
And yet triangulation by moonlight were a pleasant death, betwixt substance and shadow. Ninon, girl, quick! bring me my bronze-covered trigonometry.
[Exit Ninon.
Whetstone.
Hold on! There must be some mistake here. Please don’t pull any trigger on us!
Bluegrass [aside].
And make angels of us!