CORYDON‐THYRSIS: [Sorrowfully.] Sir, we are always ready.
[CORYDON and THYRSIS move the table and chairs to one side out of the way, and seat themselves in a half‐reclining position on the floor.]
THYRSIS: How gently in the silence, Corydon, Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass That’s yellow where the sun is out, and black Where the clouds drag their shadows. Have you noticed How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye They graze?
CORYDON: As if they thought of other things. What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question Where next to pull?—Or do their far minds draw them Thus vaguely north of west and south of east?
THYRSIS: One cannot say. . . . The black lamb wears its burdocks As if they were a garland,—have you noticed? Purple and white—and drinks the bitten grass As if it were a wine.
CORYDON: I’ve noticed that. What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd?
THYRSIS: Why, yes!—that is, why,—no. (I have forgotten my line.)
COTHURNUS: [Prompting.] “I know a game worth two of that!”
THYRSIS: Oh, yes. . . . I know a game worth two of that! Let’s gather rocks, and build a wall between us; And say that over there belongs to me, And over here to you!
CORYDON: Why,—very well. And say you may not come upon my side Unless I say you may!
THYRSIS: Nor you on mine! And if you should, ’twould be the worse for you!
[They weave a wall of colored crêpe paper ribbons from the centre front to the centre back of the stage, fastening the ends to COLUMBINE’S chair in front and to PIERROT’S chair in the back.]
CORYDON: Now there’s a wall a man may see across, But not attempt to scale.
CORYDON: Come, let us separate, and sit alone A little while, and lay a plot whereby We may outdo each other. [They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall.]
COLUMBINE: [Off stage.] My name is Columbine! Leave me alone!
THYRSIS: [Coming up to the wall.] Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact I started it myself, I do not like this So very much. What is the sense of saying I do not want you on my side the wall? It is a silly game. I’d much prefer Making the little song you spoke of making, About the lamb, you know, that thought himself A shepherd!—what do you say?