Upon a mortal woman, and I have heard tell
It seemed as if he had outrun the moon,
That he must always follow through waste heaven,
He loved so happily. He’ll be but slow
To break a tree that was so sweetly planted.
Let’s see that arm; I’ll see it if I like.
That arm had a good father and a good mother,
But it is not like this.
Young Man.
You are mocking me.