WALTER.
If like her name, she must be beautiful.
EDWARD.
And so she is; she has dark violet eyes,
A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek
The blushing blood miraculous doth range
From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks
Her soul is shining through her earnest face,
As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud—
My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,
It cannot gild her gold with all its words.
WALTER.
Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice?
You speak of her as if you were her lover.
Could you not find a home within her heart?
No, no! you are too cold, you never loved.
EDWARD.
There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth.
WALTER.
A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once?