Helena: 'Tis sadly put, my lord.
Antonio: Ah, sadly, loathly; but, my Helena—
Helena: I would not sink from it, the simple sun—
Fade to a tomb! What dirging hast thou heard
To mind thee of it?
Antonio: Love is a bliss too bright
To rest on earth. With it God should give us
Ever to soar above mortality.
But you must know——!
Helena: Not yet, tell me not yet!
Dimly I see the burden in your eyes,
But dare not take it yet into my own.
Let us a little look upon the moon,
Forgetting. (They seat themselves.)
Antonio (musingly): These hands—this hair—(Caressing them.)
Helena: Like a farewell
Your touch falls on them.
Antonio (moved): To a father yield them?
Helena: Antonio?
Antonio (still caressing): No, no! It cannot be!