I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.
The Lady.
I crave your pardon; in your gentle face
I read reproof.
The Maiden.
I judge not any man.
The Lady.
Nor woman?
The Maiden.
If you force reply, I can
Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race,
For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place
For women—nor for men, indeed, if they
Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play,
The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance,
The deadly poison of all games of chance—
All these are sinful.