_] Of the Shepherd!
CHANTECLER
Ah, what fountain is it--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Who is watching the horizon between the trees._] The darkness is
lightening.
CHANTECLER
What fountain, in which each finds water for his thirst? [_Listening
with greater attention._] To me he speaks of the Day, which arises and
shines at my song!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Aside._] And speaks of it so eloquently that for once you will forget it!
CHANTECLER
[_Noticing a_ BIRD _who having come a little way out of the thicket is
beatifically listening._] And how do you, Snipe, translate his poem?
THE SNIPE
I don't know. I only know I like it--It is sweet!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Who is not lured--she!--into forgetting to watch the
sky between the branches, aside._] The night is wearing
away!
CHANTECLER
[_To the_ NIGHTINGALE, _in a discouraged voice._] To sing! To sing! But
how, after hearing the faultless crystal of your note, can I ever be
satisfied again with the crude, brazen blare of mine?
THE NIGHTINGALE
But you must!
CHANTECLER
Shall I find it possible ever again to sing? My song, alas, must seem to
me always after this too brutal and too red!
THE NIGHTINGALE
I have sometimes thought that mine was too facile, perhaps, and too blue!
CHANTECLER
Oh, how can you humble yourself to make such a confession to me?
THE NIGHTINGALE
You fought for a friend of mine, the Rose! Learn, comrade, this
sorrowful and reassuring fact, that no one, Cock of the morning or
evening Nightingale, has quite the song of his dreams!
CHANTECLER
[_With passionate desire.
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