LALAGE.

And dost thou speak of love

To me, Politian ?-dost thou speak of love

To Lalage?-ah woe-ah woe is me!

This mockery is most cruel-most cruel indeed!

POLITIAN.

Weep not! oh, sob not thus !-thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh mourn not, Lalage—

Be comforted! I know-I know it all,

And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage!-turn here thine eyes!

Thou askest me if I could speak of love,

Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.

Thou askest me that-and thus I answer thee

Thus on my bended knee I answer thee.

[Kneeling.

Sweet Lalage, I love thee-love thee-love thee;

Thro' good and ill—thro' weal and woe I love thee.

Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,

Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,

Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?

[Arising.

Even for thy woes I love thee-even for thy woes—

Thy beauty and thy woes.