I caught it up,—from Lambeth marsh, belike.
Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such.
The Player.
Give us thy posy.
[He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by. Dickon gets out the iron lantern from the corner.]
Dickon. Hey! It wants a light.
[The Player seems to listen once more, his face turned towards the door. He lifts his hand as if to hush Dickon, lets it fall, and looks back at the fire. Dickon regards him with shy curiosity and draws nearer.]
Dickon.
Thou wilt be always minding of the fire ...
Wilt thou not?
The Player. Ay.
Dickon. It likes me, too.
The Player. So?
Dickon. Ay....
I would I knew what thou art thinking on
When thou dost mind the fire....