Roger. Not a whit. Is't dishonor to her purity
To urge thy smoky flame to brightness worthy
Of her? 'Tis what she wishes most; witness
Her confusion and her telltale blushes.
Do me justice, man; my thoughts are pure
And dwell on lawful marriage only. Thou, thou
Alone, couldst see impurity in that.
I spoke of thee, man, of thee; and who
Beside thyself would think a mottled thought
Could touch a maiden linked to thee in words
Or fact?
Dimsdell. Oh! Oh!
[Clutching at his breast.
Roger. Had I young daughters by the score, each fair
As Hebe, as voluptuous as Venus,
All thinly clad as in the golden age,
I could not wish a chaster keeper of them.
Nay, had I wives in droves like Solomon,
I'd make thee Kislah Aga of my harem,
Chief eunuch and sole security—What!
Call me satyr when I urge in bounds
The boundless beauties of pure maidenhood,
And bid thee wed them! Thus best advices are
Construed amiss, and what we kindly mean
Turned into scorn and filthiness!
Dimsdell. Forgive me, Doctor; I'm ill at ease. This pain
Is like a stick thrust in a spring; it muddies
All my thoughts. Oh! Oh!
[Pressing his hands to his breast.
Roger. Come, Dimsdell, listen to a bit of reason.
Thy body is as sound as a red apple
In November. The pain's imaginary.
[top] Marry, man, marry; thy wife will prove
A counter-irritant and drive the pain away.
Dimsdell. No more of that, I pray you.