The Lady.
Nay, that I know not!
Pierrot.
Though she wear a crown,
'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown.
The Lady.
Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.
Pierrot.
A most sweet pastime—scandal is its name.
The Lady.
Enough, it wearies me.
Pierrot.
Then, rare Marquise,
Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.
[He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee.]
The Lady.
What wouldst thou now?
Pierrot.
Ah, prithee, what, save thee!
The Lady.
Was this included in thy comedy?
Pierrot.
Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest
I strive to quench the passion in my breast;
In vain thy blandishments would make me play:
Still I desire far more than I can say.
My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous,
Instruct me still, while time remains to us,
Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, Marquise,
So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease,
Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies!