Chrysanthus.
What then was it?
Daria.
I do n't know:
Something 't was that typified
My presumption and my pride.
Chrysanthus.
Let me know it even so.
Daria.
That in me no love could grow
Save for one who first would die
For my love.
Chrysanthus.
And death being past,
Would he win your love at last?—
Daria.
Yes, on that he might rely.