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. _[hastily]_ Season: ay, season, season, season. Plague on
my memory, my wretched memory! I must een write it down. _[He begins
to write, but stops, his memory failing him]._ Yet tell me which was
the vile jingle? You said very justly: mine own ear caught it even
as my false tongue said it.

THE LADY. You said "for a space." I said "for a while."

THE MAN. "For a while" _[he corrects it]._ Good! _[Ardently]_ And
now be mine neither for a space nor a while, but for ever.

THE LADY. Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave?