Emily (slowly). Indeed, I do not wholly comprehend.
Peter. Have patience and I will be plainer yet.
Mine is a complex nature, Emily;
Magnanimous, but still methodical.
An injury I freely can forgive,
Forget it (striking his chest), never! She who leaves about
Pins on the floor to pierce a lover's foot,
Will surely plant a thorn within the side
Of him whose fate it is to be her husband!
Emily (dragging herself towards him on her knees). Have pity on me, Peter; I was mad!
Peter (with emotion). How can I choose but pity thee, poor soul,
Who, for the sake of temporary ease,
Hast forfeited the bliss that had been thine!
You could not stoop to pick a pin up. Why?
Because, forsooth, 'twas but a paltry pin!
Yet, duly husbanded, that self-same pin
Had served you to secure your gaping train,
Your self-respect—and Me.
Emily (wailing). What have I done?
Peter. I will not now reproach you, Emily,
Nor would I dwell upon my wounded sole,
The pain of which increases momently.
I part from you in friendship, and in proof,
That fated instrument I leave with you
[Presenting her with the pin, which she accepts mechanically.
Which the frail link between us twain has severed.
I can dispense with it, for in my cuff
[Shows her his coat-cuff, in which a row of pins'-heads is perceptible.
I carry others 'gainst a time of need.
My poor success in life I trace to this
That never yet I passed a pin unheeded.