Is love, that grows as the rose increases.
II
If I tell you the Marquis will die, will you smile?
And laugh when he's dead?—This powder, my lily,
That seems but an innocent sweet in this phial—
Do not touch it! breathe distant!—a poison Exili
Used a life to discover. Its formula left
To a pupil (well worthy the master!), the prudent
And pious Sainte Croix. Him, of teacher bereft,
The Devil, I deem, must have taken as student.