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And those few young men very Beauty seek.
That seems the tragedy of growing old,
To lose the dear ideal you saw and sought
With happy fever all your April days,
Renounce your dream and sit contented down
To beef and broth, ambrosia all forgot!
Peregrina:
Yet here is a happy boy who dreams awake,
What is your name, who lean upon your book,
And so intently scan the festal scene,
Drawing the dancers in their shadowy glade?
Antony:
My name is Antony.
Peregrina:
Ah, once I knew
An Antony who lost the world for love,
As you for Beauty you shall still pursue,
