May. Where is your bubbling mirth that overflowed In fresh, fantastic volume yester-eve? If doleful thoughts should shadow any face, My past might countenance such mirroring, And see, I laugh; yea, by all merry things Light-hearted am I! 'Tis the sun, I think. Why are you sad? If you still raise your brows, And stare so, like a spaniel, and unslack The pressure of your lips, I'll think, indeed, You mean to mimic my lost love, and steal With stolen looks my heart. Edmund. Am I like him? May. When you look sad you are, and when you laugh, I think he would have laughed so if he could. Edmund. You think him dead. May. Sometimes, and sometimes not. Edmund. Say you were certain of his death, what then? May. In weeds that widows wear I'd hide myself In some far lonely land, and mourn for him Among the hills and streams; and read his book; And, feeding seld and spare, woo fickle death, Who flirts with weaklings and bears off the strong, For one cold kiss to take my soul to him. Edmund. There is no man that's worthy of such love. May. I think not of his worth or want of worth; I love him. But if gentle manliness, Beauty, and honour, and unsounded passion Deserve a maid's devotion, my poor love Is but a scanty tribute to his worth; And--woe, alas!--its date of payment past, And the robbed creditor far hence or dead, Its garnered hoard weighs heavy on my heart. Edmund. Fear not, fear not. There's something whispers me Your love will be rewarded, in so far As to possess your sweetheart can amend The lengthy woe you suffer for his sake.-- Now, here's a thing to do to make you glad. Suppose that I'm the true and true-loved earl: I'll go into that grove, and suddenly Emerging, light on you; and you will know me, Or I will know you, or we'll know each other, Or let our unthought act the instant mould. May. O, in his story there's a scene like that! I'm sitting reading in my sweetheart's book A passage where he finds me reading it. Edmund. A curious notion! May. Shall we act that scene? Edmund. Yes, if you please. But have you got the book? May. Yes; here it is. Now hide; and I will change To suit the place the passage. Edmund. Very well. [Goes out. May [reading]. "Now it chanced that May Montgomery was resident in this town at the very time of Edmund's arrival. One afternoon the love-sick girl took her book to the glen, and sitting down in the shadow of a tree endeavoured to alleviate her passion by reading aloud the scene wherein her lover had represented her in just such a situation, and so engaged. She had read over the description of herself lying on her mossy couch, and her cheek was flushed with the anticipation of the interview about to ensue in the narrative between her lover and herself, when the branches rustled behind her and a voice----" Edmund [within]. May Montgomery! May.