Why, what pretty fruit that tree doth bear! I have a mind, but, alas! not the heart, to leave thee in thy tree, to rhyme to me some other day. Art done? No answer. Then I’ll rhyme, too. Spirit, thy art’s infectious.
Move slow, thou circlet of the moon,
Turn not to zones thy brightening lawns;
Let day be half a month till noon;
Wake not with light thy distant dawns.
But, fie, why doth the genial sun make the moon so pale? I would not turn so pale were a man to appear in this orchard. [Pauses.] Sweet spirit, appear, appear! No answer. Hast lost thy speech, or doth the tree’s bark encompass thee too closely? If thou art in the trunk of this fair tree, I’ll petition it with ardent lips to ope its close-bound rind and let thee out; but how? The tree cannot hear, being deaf, but the tree can feel, being alive; so then, I’ll kiss thee, thou hard, hard tree. [Bends to kiss the tree, when Ideal appears and kisses her.] What spirit art thou in man’s disguise to thus affright a lady who ne’er did harm to thee, but wished thee well? How couldst thou treat me so?
Ideal.
Fair maid, thou fill’st me with such keen delight I know not what to say, but pause for utterance, my lips being newly laden with a sweet burden.
Violet.
Nay, not so. Thou art too literal. I do entreat thee for an answer.
Ideal.
Thou art the most fair complainant that e’er did sue for answer, and in a just cause, too. How could the earth resist the sun? How could the sea resist the tide? How could a spirit resist heaven?
Violet.