Thyr. Don't pull the string so tight.
Cory. You're spilling the water.
Thyr. You've had enough—you've had enough—stop pulling
The string so tight!
Cory. Why, that's not tight at all....
How's this?
Thyr. [drops bowl]. You're strangling me! Oh, Corydon!
It's only a game!—and you are strangling me!
Cory. It's only a game, is it?—Yet I believe
You've poisoned me in earnest!
[Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about Thyrsis' neck.]
Thyr. Corydon! [Dies.]
Cory. You've poisoned me in earnest.... I feel so cold....
So cold ... this is a very silly game....
Why do we play it?—let's not play this game
A minute more ... let's make a little song
About a lamb.... I'm coming over the wall,
No matter what you say,—I want to be near you....
[Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues seeking for the wall straight across the stage.]