Her. Where is Chartrien now?
Meg. Wherever he may hatch a discontent
And cluck us trouble. But of late he spurs
His heart of venture, and dartles to our towns
To stir the scum there.
Her. Scum? You've such a thing
In Cordiaz' happy land? I'll see that scum.
It breathes, does 't not? Has eyes, and tongue?
Can answer if one speaks?
Meg. You're merry, princess.
Her. As graves at night. All is not open here.
I shall go farther,—knock at doors where Truth
Keeps honest house, not gowned for holiday.
Meg. One want we have,—that you will stay with us
And be the fairy soul of Goldusan.
Then must our land, so measureless endeared,
Be cherished as the darling care of Heaven,
Where storm may breathe but as a twittering bird
That fears to shake its nest.
Her. You've only words!
Words like these thousand-thousand smiles that seem
Half real and half painted,—teasing, strange,—
All feeding one illusion round my way
Till even the ground unqualifies beneath me
And makes each step a question.
Meg. 'Tis the doubt
You look through that transforms our face
Of truth and paints us vaguely hued.
O, for our many smiles, wilt not give one?
Her. Nay, there's a darkness fringing on this grove.
It creeps above the walls, it touches me,
And makes me shudder winding at my feet!
Meg. You've sipped of fancy at a witch's knee! [Plucks a flower]
But see,—your serpent shadows nurture this.
Confess to its perfection, and be shriven
Of any thought less fair.