Her. Oh, if I might!
No, keep it. Let us find our friends.
Meg. [Drops the flower] My hand
Defiles it for you.
Her. Nay——
Meg. Where is the fan
I carried yester-night?
Her. 'Tis—lost.
Meg. 'Tis burnt!
Her. What wind's your gossip?
Meg. Truth paused at my ear.
But, princess, if there's any charm will draw
Your eyes to me unburdened of their hate,
I'll find it though it lie beneath the ruin
Of every other hope!
Her. I'll leave you, sir.
Meg. Forgive me! Love will speak,—ay, storm its need.
Though each vain word pile up the barricade
That fends the heart desired.