Phil. A thousand sweet thrills seize one.
Arm. When to the baths sometime you’ve brought her.
Bél. No more ado, with your own arm.
Phil. Whelm her and drown her in the water.
With your own arm, drown her there in the baths.
Arm. In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty.
Bél. One promenades through them with rapture.
Phil. One treads on fine things only.
Arm. They are little lanes all strewn with roses.
Triss. Then, the sonnet seems to you—