ROXANE.
On account of your letters.
CHRISTIAN.
My letters?
ROXANE.
Yes, and it is your fault if I took so many risks. Your letters intoxicated me. Ah! remember how many you wrote me, during this last month, and all so beautiful!
CHRISTIAN.
What! Do you mean to say that for a few short love letters?....
ROXANE.
Your letters, yes! My ardent love for you,
Love passionate, was born that night of bliss
When, from beneath my willing balcony,
In accents that to both of us were new,
A soul revealed itself to me....'twas yours....
So that, each time your letters came, it seemed
As if I lived those minutes once again,
And, rapture-bound, I heard your voice itself,
Those tender tones that twined around me then.
So here am I! Penelope would not
Have persevered in waiting labour if
Ulysses could have written grandly so;
But, daft as Helen, she, to join him, would
Have flung away her tedious worsted balls.