We’d better dance now. (Lucy Weatherby. When this dance is done, I will leave you and dance with her. I know that shallow but sufficient mouth.) As you please. (Lucy Weatherby. I will make an image of you, a doll in wax. I will pierce the little wax palms with silver bodkins. No, I will not.) That’s good music. It beats in your head. (It beats in the head, it beats in the head, It ties the heart with a scarlet thread, This is the last, This is the last, Hurry, hurry, this is the last. We dance on a floor of polished sleet, But the little cracks are beginning to meet, Under the play of our dancing feet. I do not care. I am Wingate still. The corn unground by the watermill. And I am yours while the fiddles spill, But my will has a knife to cut your will, My birds will never come to your hill.