I’ve painted a picture of you. It is the finest portrait of our times. The rose-red blush of your rose-white cheeks… ah, you are quite perfect. A face as dazzling as yours must charm the world to its knees.
And yet… oh, you don’t feel it now, but it is rather sad. You shall grow old and dreadful and uncouth, but your picture will never be older than this particular day in May. If only it were you who was always to be young, and the picture that was to grow old. For that, I think you would give everything. I think you would sell your soul to the devil on a sweet summer’s day. N’est pas, m’sieur?
How touching you look in this moment, how extraordinary. A BESTIAL, SODDEN, SINFUL beauty DRENCHED IN BLOOD, weeping exquisite tears over sins you have not yet committed…
I do hope you enjoy the play, Mr. Gray.