Was open fact; he had indeed for me
No single further glance, no press of hand—
He was by day about her when he could be.
And in the night his dreams betrayed to me
How firm she held his thought in grip; all that
Is true and more; but, for all that, it follows
Not yet that she must love him in requital
And less than all that she—ah no, ah no!
’Twas jealousy that tore me on—forgive!
(To Mariamne.) You too forgive!