Classic Poem

SCENE III.

HERMIONE, Cleone.

HERMIONE .

A TTENDOIS YOU , Cleone, a modest wrath?

CLEONE .

Pain that was not is that most fatal.
I pity all the more the author of his boredom,
The blow that was lost is gone as him.
Count How long do your hymen is brewing.
He spoke, Madame, and Pyrrhus says.

HERMIONE .

Pyrrhus you think sucks? And that he feared encor?
Peoples who fled ten years before Hector;
That a hundred times, frightened the absence of Achilles,
In their vessels scorching sought their asylum;
And we would see encor without the support of her son,
Hélène reapply the Trojans unpunished?
No, Cleone, there is no enemy himself;
He wants everything he does: and if he marry me, he loves me.
But Orestes at will imputed to me his pain;
Do we care that her tears?
Pyrrhus returned to us! Well, dear Cleone,
Understand you transport the happy Hermione?
Do you know what is Pyrrhus? Did you actually tell
The number of exploits. . . . but who can count?
Fearless, and everywhere followed the victory,
Charming, faithful finally nothing is missing in his glory.
Dream. . . . .

CLEONE .

Conceal: your rival in tears
Comes to your feet, no doubt, bring her pain.

HERMIONE .

Gods, can I leave my joy to my soul!
Go out: I should say that he?