THE MAN. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at
your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets such store by an apt
word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--no: I have
said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you
must be fire-new--

THE LADY. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more
accustomed to be listened to than preached at.

THE MAN. The most are like that that do talk well. But though you
spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am
the king of words--

THE LADY. A king, ha!

THE MAN. No less. We are poor things, we men and women--

THE LADY. Dare you call me woman?

THE MAN. What nobler name can I tender you? How else can I love you?
Yet you may well shrink from the name: have I not said we are but
poor things? Yet there is a power that can redeem us.

THE LADY. Gramercy for your sermon, sir. I hope I know my duty.

THE MAN. This is no sermon, but the living truth. The power I speak
of is the power of immortal poesy. For know that vile as this world
is, and worms as we are, you have but to invest all this vileness with
a magical garment of words to transfigure us and uplift our souls til
earth flowers into a million heavens.