Mary. Midnight long since.
Shakespeare. Oh, I am damned and lost In hell for ever!
Mary. Fool, dear fool, what harm? If this be hell indeed, is not hell kind? Is not hell lovely, if this love be hell? Is not damnation sweet?
Shakespeare. God does not know How sweet, how sweet!
Mary. Were they not wise, those two Whose same blood beats again in you and me, That chose the desert and the fall and went Exultant from their garden and their God? Long shall the sworded angels stand at ease And idly guard the undesired delight: Long shall the grasses grow and tall the briars, And bent the branches of the ancient trees: And many a year the wilding flowers shall blaze Under a lonely sun, and fruited sweets Shall drop and rot, and feed the roots that feed, And bud again and ripen: long and long Silent the watchman-lark in heaven shall hang High over Eden, e’er they come again Those two, whose blood is our blood, and their love Our love, our own, that no god gave us, ours, The venture ours, the glory ours, the shame A price worth paying, then, now, ever—
Shakespeare. Eve, Eve, Eve, the snake has been with you! You draw, You drink my soul as I your body—
Mary. Kiss!