No.
ALBOVINE.
Nor hers?
HILDEGARD.
How might it, king? Thou art good to us.
ALBOVINE.
All things born
Seem good to lovers in their spring of love,
And all men should be. Maiden, God doth well
To give us foresight of the sight of heaven
By looking in such eyes as love like thine
Kindles and veils for love’s sake. Fain was I
To see my boy’s bride and her bridegroom here
Before the feast broke in on us, and bless
Their love with mine—if mine be blessing.
HILDEGARD.
Sire,
As the earth gives thanks in spring for the April sun
I would and cannot yield you thanks for this.
ALMACHILDES.