Chatter, fall dumb, go moping in the rain,
Be turned by flattery, be bowed with weeping,
Grow grey, and shake with palsy over a staff,--
All this, my love, as empty of ideas
As even the fondest mother's heart could wish.

OCT. You mock me, sir?

LOR. I am but musing aloud,
As is my fashion.--And indeed, my dear,
What is the harm in lovers-and-all-that
That virtuous maidens may not pass the time
With pretty tales about them?--After all,
Were it not for the years of looking forward to it
And looking back upon it, love would be
Only the commonest bird-song in the hedge,--
And men would have more time to think,--and less
To think about.

OCT. That may be. But young girls
Should not be left alone too much together.
They grow too much attached. They grow to feel
They cannot breathe apart. It is unhealthy.

LOR. It may be true. But as for me, whom youth
Abandoned long ago, I look on youth
As something fresh and sweet, like a young green tree,
Though the wind bend it double.--'Tis you, 'tis I,
'Tis middle age the fungus settles on.