Cornelia. It harboured too many insects at last, and there was always a nest of scorpions in the crevice.
Tasso. Oh! what a prince of a sage-tree! And the well, too, with its bucket of shining metal, large enough for the largest cocomero 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!