The Lady.
What must I next?
[They play.]
Pierrot.
Withdraw.
The Lady.
It goes too fast.
[They continue playing, until Pierrot catches her hand.]
Pierrot [laughing].
'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last.
[He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage; she eludes him.]
The Lady.
Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch
A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch.
Pierrot [sitting down sulkily].
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.