Lover. Echo! mysterious nymph, declareOf what you’re made, and what you are.
Lover. Mid airy cliffs and places high,Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.
Echo. You lie!
Lover. Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,—Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!
Lover. I’ll question thee before I go,—Come, answer me more apropos!
Echo. Poh! poh!
Lover. Tell me, fair nymph, if e’er you sawSo sweet a girl as Phœbe Shaw.
Lover. Say, what will turn that frisking coneyInto the toils of matrimony?
Lover. Has Phœbe not a heavenly brow?Is not her bosom white as snow?
Echo. Ass! No!
Lover. Her eyes! was ever such a pair?Are the stars brighter than they are?
Echo. They are!
Lover. Echo, thou liest, but can’t deceive me.
Echo. Leave me!
Lover. But come, thou saucy, pert romancer,Who is as fair as Phœbe? Answer!
Echo. Ann, sir.