Aris. No word but that?
Ara. That is too much.
Aris. [Approaching] Too much?
Ara. I—faint again. Nay, touch me not!
Aris. Am I so perilous to thee? My hand
Has had no commerce yet with cruelty.
Ara. The moon with silver foot steps not more soft
Among the tears of night than falls thy touch
On me, who, poorer than the night, must go
Uncomforted. Thou'lt leave this place at once