And judge of character, as if ’twere clay:—
This forms a man—has wisdom, firmness, power;
And that, a maid—is foolish, fickle, frail,
And never can be wholly safe, forsooth,
Except when subject to a man, her lord!”
“Ah, but,” I said, “we men all prize you so!
To hold you ours, our pride seems infinite.
Thus lifted up by you, it is your fault
If we seem lords to you.”
“Is it?” she ask’d,