Vine:
I've seen the moon.
Merrick:
The moon? 'Tisn't the moon
That's tumbling on us, but yon raging star.
What notion now is clotted in your head?
Vine:
I've seen the moon; it has nigh broke my heart.
Sollers:
Not the moon too jumping out of her ways?
Vine:
No, no; — but going quietly and shining,
Pushing away a flimsy gentle cloud
That would drift smoky round her, fending it off
With steady rounds of blue and yellow light.
It was not much to see. She was no more
Than a curved bit of silver rind. But I
Never before so noted her —