_Hamish_.
Why, that's an honour, surely.

_Morris_.
Now if I loved
The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes
Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;
And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil
Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take!)--

_Hamish_.
You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?

_Morris_.
I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without
All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind
Seems running on for ever: I would think
A thought that was always tasting them would make
The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame
Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell,
Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.

_Hamish_.
Why specially Jean?

_Morris_.
Why Jean? The girl's all spirit!

_Hamish_.