Enough the jest. To-morrow I will grant it.
I am too old, too old to struggle with you.
The cold is bitter in this mildewy wood,
And my feet numb. Why will you linger still?
Am I not blind?
Icelin. Am I not blind?Then I may marry him?
Dansberg. Icelin. Am I not blind?Then I may marry him?Yes.
Icelin.And may I have my mother’s silks you keep
In lavender?
Dansberg. Hough, hough, hough. You wicked girl!