SYLVIUS He and his love were fictional, of course. And anyhow by now I'm sure they're dead!-And yet, in the performance, real: The source Of true love never can run just the head Even if prison'd in the imagination. An audience might gape if not guffaw At his delight in willing degradation. Yet his will seems to fill mine own with awe, Inspiring with the depth of his prostration If not his love for--Phoebe, was her name?-And how, enrapt, he found some words to say Unchecked by unsurpassed exasperation. Were I to love I might well act the same. Meanwhile I have two tickets to the play....
Sylvius.
Nicola, James B.
SYLVIUS He and his love were fictional, of course. And anyhow by now I'm sure they're dead!-And yet, in the performance, real: The source Of true love never can run just the head Even if prison'd in the imagination. An audience might gape if not guffaw At his delight in willing degradation. Yet his will seems to fill mine own with awe, Inspiring with the depth of his prostration If not his love for--Phoebe, was her name?-And how, enrapt, he found some words to say Unchecked by unsurpassed exasperation. Were I to love I might well act the same. Meanwhile I have two tickets to the play....