Lady S. In a wardrobe, fresh as spring
With yearly lavender. A fitting garb
Of penitence it seemed; a punishment,
A pang, indeed, to show myself to him,
My husband, in the vesture of my love!
Groom. And did you not?
Lady S. No, Warwick, for I met
His mistress at the door, and gentleness
Became malignity.
Groom. But afterwards?
What end did you propose?
Lady S. My death, my death!
Oh, love, I wish to die: I mean to die—
Alone, without regret. That week of Sin
I came here to repent envelopes all
The past and all the future in a cloud
Of glory. At the sight of you my mind,
And that imagination which I am—
Let me remember that: the Universe
Is pure imagination conscious in us:
Most beautiful! The Universe becomes
That week of passionate Sin and hides my soul
As in the pristine fire. Take off my cloak.
[She advances to the centre of the room. Groom follows and removes her cloak.]
Am I not beautiful again?
Groom. As fresh
As hawthorn buds, desirable as wine
In summer droughts and molten calentures,
As sweet as bread and meat to starving men!
What miracle is this?
Lady S. The miracle
Of Life triumphant. Drink to Life and Love.
[They drink.]