What, father, is that all?

I do not know this tertian fever, love,

Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,

8

8

This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier

To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?

One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.

And if it were indeed to serve the State,

Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,

Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,

Who is this paragon that thou designest

Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel

Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent

In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate

With some great lady from the Imperial Court,

Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;

Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.

Tell me, good father.

King.

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