were his face not fair, Were not his fame bright—were his aspect foul, His name dishonourable, his line through life A loathing and a spitting-stock for scorn, Could I do this? Am I then even as they Who queened it once in Rome’s abhorrent face An empress each, and each by right of sin Prostitute? All the life I have lived or loved Hath been, if snows or seas or wellsprings be, Pure as the spirit of love toward heaven is—chaste As children’s eyes or mothers’. Though I sinned As yet my soul hath sinned not, Albovine Must bear, if God abhor unrighteousness, The weight of penance heaviest laid on sin, Shame. Not on me may shame be set, though hell Take hold upon me dying. I would the deed Were done, the wreak of wrath were wroken, and I Dead. Enter Albovine. Albovine ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Art thou sick at heart to see me? ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. No. ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Thou art sweet and wise as ever God hath made Woman. I would not turn thine heart from me Or set thy spirit against the sense of mine For more than Rome’s old empire. ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. That, albeit Thou wouldst, be sure thou canst not. God nor man Could wake within me toward my lord the king A new strange love or loathing. Fear not this.
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