Vittia. Now you refuse?
Yolanda. He does—he does!
Vittia. The whole?
Yolanda. Lady of Venice, yes; for very shame!
(With grave joy.)
Bitterly tho' it be, he must, for shame!
Though he would waste the air of the world to keep
The breath still in the veins
Of her his love so wronged,
He cannot ask me more than breast can bear
Knowing I have already borne for her
Infection worse than fetid marshes send
From Mesaoria—
Have lost the sky of love that I had arched
And all the stars of it. See, he is dumb!—
He cannot.
Camarin (coldly). No; but to your heart I leave her
And to your pity.
Yolanda. Say not pity to me!
(The word overwhelms her anew.)
Am I not needy, fain of it, and can
Endurance ever dure!
What have I left
Of joy to ripple in me or of light
To sway me to forgetting—I to whom
Dawn was enchanted incense once, and day,
The least of earth, an ides of heaven bliss.
What to me left! to me!
Who shepherded each happy flock of waves
Running with silvery foaming there to shore,
Who numbered the little leaves with laughing names
Out of my love,
And quickened the winds with quicker winds of hope,
That now are spent ... as summer waters,
Leaving my breast a torrent's barren bed.
Pity and pity! ever pity! No.