The Maiden.
Not in the stars, I trust.
We are but wretched creatures of the dust,
Sinful, and desperately wicked; still,
It is in mercy our Creator’s will
To hear our prayers.
The Lady.
And do you then believe
He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive
A case: Suppose a loving mother prays
For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways,
Entreats his God for death with equal power
And fervor.
The Maiden.
It is wrong to pray for death.
The Lady.
I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour
A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath
A mother, hastening to a dying child,
Prays for fair weather?—But you do not deign
To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled
That little, silver smile! I might explain
My meaning further; but why should I shake
Your happy faith?
The Maiden.
You could not.