St. J. So I see.
Whom have you shown it to?
Sir T. To none but you.
St. J. Burn it.
Sir T. [Placing the letter in his pocket again] I can't; I feel it tells the truth.
St. J. Never believe it, Tristram! Martha Sackville,
Stately and unapproachable, and chaste
As fire and snow—whatever Martha Sumner
May be now.
Sir T. The wantonest women veil
Their lust with dignity; or knowing it not,
Feel it, and are constrained and awkward: broach
It once, then lechery rushes out unstopped
By——
St. J. Hush! Why have you told me this?
Sir T. Advice—
I want advice.
St. J. Tell me the rest.
Sir T. I thought
For half an hour when this came, reasoning thus:
"Martha is chaste: against my eyes and ears
"That I will die for"—I was deep in love.
"And if she dropped a stitch, what's that to me?
"Women are sensual, full of seed like men;
"But me she loves—a different fire from that
"Uneasy prurience wondering girls and boys
"Alike give facile way to, now and then.
"Have I no past? If she has hers, we both
"Begin the world anew." And best and worst
This Odham died upon my marriage-day.