Northlake.
Why, what’s in that tree? ’Tis but an orchard tree.
Violet.
I’ll wager thee, ’twill bear sweet fruit.
Northlake.
Why, what a fever thou art in!
Violet.
I’m not in a fever. A child that never ventured in the fields may know a blossom when it sees it.
Northlake.
Come, thy maid, Ninon, has risen, and awaits thee. Thy feet are damp with morning dew from the grass.