And Love, fulfilling all things, save Hunger, we ’scape, with sweets and ices, The folly of Love’s sacrifices. LES INDOLENTS. BAH! spite of Fate, that says us nay, Suppose we die together, eh? —A rare conclusion you discover! —What’s rare is good. Let us die so, Like lovers in Boccaccio. —Hi! hi! hi! you fantastic lover! —Nay, not fantastic. If you will, Fond, surely irreproachable. Suppose, then, that we die together? —Good sir, your jests are fitlier told Than when you speak of love or gold. Why speak at all, in this glad weather? Whereat, behold them once again, Tircis beside his Dorimène, Not far from two blithe rustic rovers, For some caprice of idle breath Deferring a delicious death. Hi! hi! hi! what fantastic lovers! FANTOCHES. SCARAMOUCHE waves a threatening hand To Pulcinella, and they stand, Two shadows, black against the moon. The old doctor of Bologna pries For simples with impassive eyes, And mutters o’er a magic rune. The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed, Glides slyly ’neath the trees, in quest Of her bold pirate lover’s sail; Her pirate from the Spanish main, Whose passion thrills her in the pain Of the loud languorous nightingale. PANTOMIME. PIERROT, no sentimental swain, Washes a pâté down again With furtive flagons, white and red. Cassandre, to chasten his content, Greets with a tear of sentiment His nephew disinherited. That blackguard of a Harlequin Pirouettes, and plots to win His Colombine that flits and flies.
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