CAMBER. CAMBER. They say it: but what are lies to thee? GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Art thou nor man nor woman? CAMBER. CAMBER. Nay—I trust— Man. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. And hast heart to make thy spoil of me? CAMBER. CAMBER. Would God I might! GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Thou art made of lies and lust— Earth’s worst is all too good for such to see, And yet thine eyes turn heavenward—as they must, Being man’s—if man be such as thou—and soil The light they see. Thou hast made of me thy spoil, Thy scorn, thy profit—yea, my whole soul’s plunder Is all thy trophy, thy triumphal prize And harvest reaped of thee; nay, trampled under And rooted up and scattered. Yet the skies That see thy trophies reared are full of thunder, And heaven’s high justice loves not lust and lies. CAMBER.
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