I grow aweary, and my heart is sore.
Thou dost not love me; I will play no more.
[He buries his face in his hands. The Lady stands over him.]
The Lady.
What is this petulance?
Pierrot.
'Tis quick to tell—
Thou hast but mocked me.
The Lady.
Nay! I love thee well!
Pierrot.
Repeat those words, for still within my breast
A whisper warns me they are said in jest.