The Lady.
Ah! yes.
The Maiden.
He is
Not false; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman.
The Lady.
His
The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn
By the great flood, and onward madly borne
With the wild, foaming torrent miles away.—
No doubt he loved the violet that grew
In the still woods ere the floods came; he knew
Not then of roses!
The Maiden.
Cruel eyes, I say
But this to all your flashings—you have lied
To me in all!
The Lady.