Ire. Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,

And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!

Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other,

There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.

That I a woman should lay bare my soul;

Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart

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To one who loves me not, and doth despise

The service I would tender!

Asan.

Cease, I pray you;

These are distempered words.

Ire.

Nay, they are true.

And come from the inner heart. Leave these strange shores

And her you love. I know her from a child.

She is too high and cold for mortal love;

Too wrapt in duty, and high thoughts of State,

Artemis and Athené fused in one,

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