Queen (meditatively): I must not love, Oozizi.
Oozizi: Lady! The common people love.
[She points to door.
Lady, the green fields going from here to the blueness, and bending towards it, and going wandering on, and the rivers they meet and the woods that shade the rivers, all own you for their sovereign. Lady, a million lime-trees mellow your realm. The golden hoards are yours. Yours are the deep fields and the iris marshes. Yours are the roads of wandering and all ways home. The common delights of love your mere soldiers know. Lady, you may not love.
[The Queen sighs. Oozizi continues her knitting.
Queen: My mother loved, Oozizi.
Oozizi: Lady, for a day. For one day, mighty lady, As one might stoop in idleness to a broken toy and pick it up and throw it again away, so she loved for a day. That idle fancy of an afternoon tarnished no pinnacle that shone from her exalted station. But to love for more than a day—(Queen's face lights up)—that were to place your high unequalled glory below a vulgar pastime. One alone may sit in the golden palace to reign over the green fields; but all may love.
Queen: Do all love but I, Oozizi?
Oozizi: Wondrous many, lady.
Queen: How know you, Oozizi?