And all the soft and playful tenderness
Which hath its home in woman’s breast, ere yet
Deep wrongs have sear’d it—all is fled from mine.
Urge me no more.
Eri. O lady! doth the flower
That sleeps entomb’d through the long wintry storms,
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring,
And shall not woman’s heart, from chill despair,
Wake at love’s voice?
Vit. Love!—make love’s name thy spell,