opening up the secret fountainsWhich now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay.Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek’st the lowest hollows?Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue.Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence—Joining praises through the ages—Is it all a minstrel’s dream?Alas! he wakes. [Lewis rises.]

Lewis. Ah! faithless beauty,Is this your promise, that whene’er you prayedI should be still the partner of your vigils,And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay dissemblingWhen she who woke you, took my feet for yours:Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.Alas! what’s this? These shoulders’ cushioned ice,And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious life-blood!Who has done this?

Eliz. Forgive! ’twas I—my maidens—

Lewis. O ruthless hags!

Eliz. Not so, not so—They weptWhen I did bid them, as I bid thee nowTo think of nought but love.

Lewis. Elizabeth!Speak! I will know the meaning of this madness!

Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,In every age, have tamed the rebel fleshBy such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths,If I would climb the mountains where they rest.Grief is the gate of bliss—why wedlock—knighthood—A mother’s joy—a hard-earned field of glory—By tribulation come—so doth God’s kingdom.

Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures—Are these the love of God? Is He well pleasedWith this stern holocaust of health and joy?

Eliz. What! Am I not as gay a lady-loveAs ever clipt in arms a noble knight?Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?It pleases me to bear what you call pain,Therefore to me ’tis pleasure: joy and griefAre the will’s creatures; martyrs kiss the stake—The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze—The dullest boor will seek a fight, and countHis pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,Eve’s curse lays suffering, as their natural lot,On womankind, till custom makes it light.I know the use of pain: bar not the leechBecause his cure is bitter—’Tis such medicineWhich breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion,For which you say you love me.—Ay, which bringsEven when most sharp, a stern and awful joyAs its attendant angel—I’ll say no more—Not even to thee—command, and I’ll obey thee.

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