Cecily: I may still have to get married.

Ishmaël: You know I’ll run for it.

Cecily: Run from it is my suggestion.

Ishmaël: Why would you fill my heart with disillusion?

Cecily: The butterfly drinks its own nectar my dear. I fill it not. Drink only from lovely flowers, and you shall be saved from your disillusionment.

Ishmaël: What a poet thou art, Cecily Shelley Keats Tennyson.

Cecily: Egad! I already have too many last names to get married.