Pan made it long ago in Arcady.
Pierrot.
I heard it long ago, I know not where,
As I knew thee, or ever I came here.
But I forgot all things—my name and race,
All that I ever knew except thy face.
Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me,
That I may tell it like a rosary.
Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees,
How art thou designate—art thou Heart's-Ease?
The Lady.
Waste not the night in idle questioning,
Since Love departs at dawn's awakening.
Pierrot.
Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state,
Since thou art lovely and passionate.
Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre.
The Lady.
I am to each the face of his desire.
Pierrot.