No! That’s true. I could not hurt her sweet, white flesh. God, how I love her! I’ll tear out that love! Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it: all dirtied, all. But I’ll not be fond!
Herbert:
Why not? she loves you; she said so: it’s true, most likely.
Shakespeare:
Trust’s dead in me: she has killed it. I think of her, and shudder—the sluttish spoil of opportunity. Faugh!
Herbert:
Put it out of mind, and it’s as if it had not been.
Shakespeare:
You’ll marry her?
Herbert: