Is it not so? Come, answer. Is it true?
Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late,
And have forsook my virginals for thee.
All's beautiful indeed and all unsure?
"Ay" ... (Did you hear?) He's fair and faithless? "Ay." [Speaking with the lute.]
Herbert.
Poor oracle, with only one reply!—
Wherein 'tis unlike thee.
Mary. Can he love aught
So well as his own image in the brook,
Having once seen it?
Herbert. Ay!
Mary. The lute saith "No." ...
O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark.
What said I? Oracle, can he love aught
So dear as his own image in the brook,
Having once looked?... No, truly.
[With sudden abandon.] Nor can I!
Herbert.
O leave this game of words, you thousand-tongued.
Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all yours
Forever;—or at least till you be mute!...
I used to wonder he should be thy slave:
I wonder now no more. Your ways are wonders;
You have a charm to make a man forget
His past and yours, and everything but you.
Mary [speaking].
"When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white"—
How now?
Herbert.
"How now?" That song ... thou wilt sing that?
Mary.
Marry, what mars the song?
Herbert. Have you forgot
Who made it?