Hérodiade. Were you not about to touch me?
Nurse. I would belong to him, for whom the Fates
Reserve your secrets.
Hérodiade. Oh! be silent!
Nurse. Sometimes
He’ll come, perchance?
Hérodiade. I pray you, do not listen,
Innocent stars!
Nurse. How else, ’mid sombre terrors
To dream a suppliant, more implacable,
That god the treasure of your grace attends!
For whom, devoured of agony, you guard
The mystery, vain splendour of your being?
Hérodiade. For me.
Nurse. Sad flower seen with atony
In water, doleful flower that grows alone,
Nor has anxiety but cloudy sound.
Hérodiade. Go, keep your pity with your irony.
Nurse. Expound however: no, ingenuous child,
Some day this scorn triumphant will diminish....