2d Lady: Then, vainly! 'tis a theft men like the most.
Charles: When in its stead the thief has left her own—
But shall we woo no boon of mirth save dance?
A lute! a lute! (One is gone for.) Some new lay, Hæmon, come!
And every word must dip its syllables
In Pindar's spring to trip so lightly forth.
Hæmon: I have no lay.
Charles: The lute! (It is offered Hæmon.)
Sing us of love
That builds a Paradise of kisses, thinks
The Infinite bound up in an embrace.
Whose sighs seem to it hurricanes of pain,
Whose tears as seas of molten misery.
Hæmon: I have none—cannot.
Charles: Now will you fright off
Again our timid cheer?
Hæmon: While she, my sister—!
(The lute is offered again.)
I cannot, will not!
Charles: Will not? will not? Look!
I had an honor pluckt to laurel it,
A wreath of noble worth, a thing to tell——
Hæmon: Honor upon dishonor sits not well.
Charles (not hearing): Heat me not with denial. Is new bliss
Raised from the dead in me but to fall back
As stone ere it has breathed? Have I so frequent
Drained you? Be slow to tempt me—In me moves
Peril that has a passion to leap forth!