CHORUS.
Thy speech turns toward Arcadia like blown wind.
ALTHAEA.
Sharp as the north sets when the snows are out.
CHORUS.
Nay, for this maiden hath no touch of love.
ALTHAEA.
I would she had sought in some cold gulf of sea
Love, or in dens where strange beasts lurk, or fire,
Or snows on the extreme hills, or iron land
Where no spring is; I would she had sought therein
And found, or ever love had found her here.
CHORUS.
She is holier than all holy days or things,
The sprinkled water or fume of perfect fire;
Chaste, dedicated to pure prayers, and filled
With higher thoughts than heaven; a maiden clean,
Pure iron, fashioned for a sword, and man
She loves not; what should one such do with love?