CAMBER.
No man might see thine eyes and lips and brow
Who would not—what he durst not crave of thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay, verily? And thy spirit exalts thee now
So high that these thy words fly forth so free,
And fain thine act would follow—flying above
Shame’s reach and fear’s? What gift may this be? Love?
Or liking? or compassion?
CAMBER.
Take not thus
Mine innocent words amiss, nor wrest awry
Their piteous purpose toward thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Piteous!
Who lives so low and looks upon the sky
As would desire—who shares the sun with us
That might deserve thy pity?
CAMBER.
Thou.