Cornelia.—It harboured too many insects at last, and there was always a nest of scorpions in the crevice.
Tasso.—O! what a prince of a sage-tree! And the well too, with its bucket of shining metal, large enough for the largest cocomero[9] to cool in it for dinner!
Cornelia.—The well, I assure you, is as cool as ever.
Tasso.—Delicious! delicious! And the stone-work round it, bearing no other marks of waste than my pruning-hook and dagger left behind?
Cornelia.—None whatever.
Tasso.—White in that place no longer? There has been time enough for it to become all of one colour; grey, mossy, half-decayed.
Cornelia.—No, no; not even the rope has wanted repair.
Tasso.—Who sings yonder?
Cornelia.—Enchanter! No sooner did you say the word cocomero, than here comes a boy carrying one upon his head.
Tasso.—Listen! listen! I have read in some book or other those verses long ago. They are not unlike my Aminta. The very words!