But when they falter from the lips I love,
The lips which have been pressed to mine, a chill
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood
Of this my station, which represses feeling
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me450
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara,
And share a cottage on the Caucasus
With thee—and wear no crowns but those of flowers.
Myr. Would that we could!
Sar.And dost thou feel this?—Why?