Pal. I thought I failed, and lost thy love.
Mar.O, faithless,
That could not lose my love. If thou succeed
Or fail, ’tis one. But tell me, giv’st thou heed
To visions? Are they not a fickle fabric,
Distorted fancies of the spirit, intruding
By night in memory’s darkened cell? Or holdst thou
They come from heaven?
Pal.Ay. Talk not of them now.
Let me not think of it.—