Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,
Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,
Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.
Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
Dowers thee with her own eternity;
Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude
O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.
Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.
Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!
I ask no pity, I demand but pain:
And if I love thee, what is that to thee?
It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.
Denham.
That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be unintelligible it must be fine. It means "mes hommages!" (Kisses her hand.) And now come down! (He hands her down from the "throne".)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(with a shy laugh, crosses r) But you don't mean to say that you have said all those fine words about me?
Denham.
Yes—to you, Blanche. I love you. What is that to you? (Comes down to fire.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty verses. (With a mocking smile.) Is this your "situation" at last?