Niece. No! What do you think of Tipkin?
Cler. Tipkin! Why, I think if I was a young lady that had it I'd part with it immediately.
Niece. Pray, how would you get rid of it?
Cler. I'd change it for another. I could recommend to you three very pretty syllables—What do you think of Clerimont?
Niece. Clerimont! Clerimont! Very well—but what right have I to it?
Cler. If you will give me leave, I'll put you in possession of it. By a very few words I can make it over to you, and your children after you.
Niece. O fie! Whither are you running? You know a lover should sigh in private, and languish whole years before he reveals his passion; he should retire into some solitary grove, and make the woods and wild beasts his confidants. You should have told it to the echo half-a-year before you had discovered it, even to my handmaid. And yet besides—to talk to me of children! Did you ever hear of a heroine with a big belly?
Cler. What can a lover do, madam, now the race of giants is extinct? Had I lived in those days there had not been a mortal six foot high, but should have owned Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or measured his length on the ground——Parthenissa should have been heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight, the echo's burden and the river's murmur.
Niece. That had been a golden age, indeed! But see, my aunt has left her grave companion and is coming toward us——I command you to leave me.