In The Garden

Aylmers Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.     He:     Come to the bank where the boat is moord to the willow-tree low;     Bertha, the baby, wont notice, Brian, the blockhead, wont know.     She:     Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose;     Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows.     He:     This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew     Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you.     She:     Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave.     You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.     He:     Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these,     I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please.     Brian and Basil are punting, leave them their dice and their wine,     Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine.     See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace,     Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face.     She:     Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end?     Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?     He:     Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest,     Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est.     She:     Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist;     Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste.     He:     Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?     She:     You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell.     Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warnd for all that.     He (aside):     Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat.     She:     Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole,     You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?     He:     Girl! That may happen, but this is; after this welcome the worst;     Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore cursd.     Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard,     Make me your girdle, your necklace,     She:     Laurence, you kiss me too hard.     He:     Aye, Tis the road to Avernus, nest ce pas vrai donc, ma belle?     There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle.     Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch?     You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch.     She:     Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch.