Thyr. We cannot act
A tragedy with comic properties!
Coth. Try it and see. I think you'll find you can.
One wall is like another. And regarding
The matter of your insufficient wood,
The important thing is that you speak the lines,
And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain
Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready?
Cory.-Thyr. [sorrowfully]. Sir, we are always ready.
Coth. Play the play!
[Corydon and Thyrsis move the table and chairs to one side out of the way, and seat themselves in a half-reclining position on the floor, left of the center of the stage, propped up by crepe paper pillows and bolsters, in place of rocks.]
Thyr. How gently in the silence, Corydon,
Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass
That's yellow where the sun is out, and black
Where the clouds drag their shadows.
Have you noticed
How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye
They graze?
Cory. As if they thought of other things.
What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question
Where next to pull?—Or do their far minds draw them
Thus vaguely north of west and south of east?
Thyr. One cannot say.... The black lamb wears its burdocks
As if they were a garland,—have you noticed?—
Purple and white—and drinks the bitten grass
As if it were a wine.
Cory. I've noticed that.
What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song
About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd?
Thyr. Why, yes!—that is, why,—no. (I have forgotten
My line.)