Good so instinctive that to gain we bleed.
Wherefore, dishonoured soul, part from thy love—
Fearfuller wrench than muscle torn from bone—
Or her soul too must perish here. Enough!
I cannot leave her. Then there is but one
Refuge for us now to make trial of,—
Refuge to which I cannot fare alone.
IV.
They burned too deep. Had they but taken that lightly
Which take they must, Love being absolute lord—