And all will know it—I could not hide it.
Our nature hath this need: woman must love.
But oh! to have made my idol of a stone,
To my wórship a déaf unanswering stone!
At last I am cured. Since not my rank suffices
To set me above the rules I gave my maids,
I’ll never love. Am I to stand and wait,
Till some man fancy me, and then to melt
And conjure inclination at a nod?
O man, thou art our god: the almighty’s curse