King.  My friend, you have not seen her, or you could not talk so.

Clown.  She must be charming if she surprises you.

King.  Oh, my friend, she needs not many words.

  She is God’s vision, of pure thought
    Composed in His creative mind;
  His reveries of beauty wrought
    The peerless pearl of womankind. 
  So plays my fancy when I see
  How great is God, how lovely she.

Clown.  How the women must hate her!

King.  This too is in my thought.

  She seems a flower whose fragrance none has tasted,
    A gem uncut by workman’s tool,
  A branch no desecrating hands have wasted,
    Fresh honey, beautifully cool.

  No man on earth deserves to taste her beauty,
    Her blameless loveliness and worth,
  Unless he has fulfilled man’s perfect duty—­
    And is there such a one on earth?

Clown.  Marry her quick, then, before the poor girl falls into the hands of some oily-headed hermit.

King.  She is dependent on her father, and he is not here.

Clown.  But how does she feel toward you? King.  My friend, hermit-girls are by their very nature timid.  And yet

  When I was near, she could not look at me;
    She smiled—­but not to me—­and half denied it;
  She would not show her love for modesty,
    Yet did not try so very hard to hide it.

Clown.  Did you want her to climb into your lap the first time she saw you?

King.  But when she went away with her friends, she almost showed that she loved me.

  When she had hardly left my side,
    “I cannot walk,” the maiden cried,
  And turned her face, and feigned to free
    The dress not caught upon the tree.

Clown.  She has given you some memories to chew on.  I suppose that is why you are so in love with the pious grove.

King.  My friend, think of some pretext under which we may return to the hermitage.

Clown.  What pretext do you need?  Aren’t you the king?

King.  What of that?

Clown.  Collect the taxes on the hermits’ rice.

King.  Fool!  It is a very different tax which these hermits pay—­one that outweighs heaps of gems.

  The wealth we take from common men,
    Wastes while we cherish;
  These share with us such holiness
    As ne’er can perish.

Voices behind the scenes.  Ah, we have found him.

King (Listening).  The voices are grave and tranquil.  These must be hermits. (Enter the door-keeper.)

Door-keeper.  Victory, O King.  There are two hermit-youths at the gate.

King.  Bid them enter at once.

Door-keeper.  Yes, your Majesty. (He goes out, then returns with the youths.) Follow me.