_[with cold majesty]_ Know you to whom you speak, sir,
that you dare express yourself so saucily?
THE MAN. _[unabashed]_ Not I, not care neither. You are some lady
of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those
with excellent voices, sweet and low, and cackling hens that cannot
make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge
me not a short hour of its music.
THE LADY. Sir: you are overbold. Season your admiration for a while
with--
THE MAN. _[holding up his hand to stop her]_ "Season your admiration
for a while--"
THE LADY. Fellow: do you dare mimic me to my face?
THE MAN. Tis music. Can you not hear? When a good musician sings a
song, do you not sing it and sing it again till you have caught and
fixed its perfect melody? Season your admiration for a while": God!
the history of man's heart is in that one word admiration.
Admiration! _[Taking up his tablets]_ What was it? "Suspend your
admiration for a space--"
THE LADY. A very vile jingle of esses. I said "Season your--"
THE MAN.
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