ROSAMUND.
How should I weep—I, thy wife?
ALBOVINE.
I have heard thee
Laugh; and thy smiles were always bright as fire.
ROSAMUND.
Well were it with me—ay, and reason found
For me to live and do the living world
Some service—could my husband warm thereat
His heart as winter-stricken hands in frost
Are warmed at winter fires.
ALBOVINE.
No need, no need:
The sun thou art warms all our year with love,
And leaves no chill on winter.
ROSAMUND.
Albovine,
Love now secludes us not from sight of man—
From sight of this my maiden and the man
Who shines but as the battle’s boy for thee
But lives for me my maiden’s lover—true
As truth is—Almachildes.