Whose pure transparence should have suited well
With your fresh brow, will find their whiteness shamed.
Teresa.
Matilda!
Matilda.
Here—these flowers are fresh; I’ll wreathe them
In the full wavings of your hair. I’ll braid it
In dark, rich folds upon your temples. Ah!
That form, so stately, yet so full of grace,
That high fair front—they will indeed proclaim you