What cared I?
By Heaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, while another had no money in his purse and but one change to his back?
Was not love all in all, and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest?
There she was under the beech tree, with her sweet face screwed up to a burlesque of grief, her little hand lying on her hard heart as though it beat for me, and her eyes the playground of a thousand quick expressions.

I strode up to her, and caught her by the hand, saying no more than just her name, "Cydaria." It seemed that there was no more to say; yet she cried, laughing and reproachful, "Have you no vows for me?
Must I go without my tribute ?" I loosed her hand and stood away from her.

On my soul, I could not speak.

I was tongue-tied, dumb as a dog.
"When you come courting in London," she said, "you must not come so empty of lover's baggage.

There ladies ask vows, and protestations, and despair, ay, and poetry, and rhapsodies, and I know not what." "Of all these I have nothing but despair," said I.
"Then you make a sad lover," she pouted.