I understand. Phœbus forgets me!
PHŒBUS.
I swear to you—
FLEUR-DE-LYS.
Don't swear!
They only swear who deceive.
PHŒBUS.
Forget you? What folly!
Are you not the most fair?
Am I not the most loving?
PHŒBUS (aside).
My beautiful betrothed
Is out of sorts to-day;
Suspicion is in her mind.
What a pity!
Beauties, the lovers you treat ill
Go elsewhere.
You can do more with pleasure
Than with tears.
FLEUR-DE-LYS (aside).