The Works of Sir Henry Taylor

Clara.
How many suitors have you discharged this morning?

Adriana.
How many?

Clara.
Yes. Was not Philip here?

Adriana.
He saw me through the lattice and stayed his horse an instant under the window.

Clara.
Was that all?

Adriana.
Yes—no—yes—I suppose so.

Clara.
Oh that maids would learn to speak the truth, or else to lie becomingly!

Adriana.
Do I not lie becomingly?—Well, 'tis from want of use. What should I say?

Clara.
What say? Had my sworn friend so questioned me,
And I been minded, maugre all our vows,
To coil my thoughts up in my secret self,
I with a brave and careless hardihood
Had graced the disavowal of my love.

Adriana.
But did I say I loved him not? Oh, God!
If I said that, I say since truth was truth
There never was a falsehood half so false.
I say I love him, and I say beside
That but to say I love him is as nought;
'Tis but a tithe and scantling of the truth;
And oh! how much I love him what can tell?
Not words—not tears—Heaven only knows how much,
And every evening when I say my prayers
I pray to be forgiven for the sin

Of loving aught on earth with such a love.

Clara.
Well, God forgive you! for you answer now
Like a true maid and honest, though a sinning.
But tell me, if that's mention'd in your prayers,
For how much love has he to be forgiven?

Adriana.
Alas! I know not.

Clara.
Nay, but you can guess.

Adriana.
Oh I have guessed a thousand times too oft;
And sometimes I am hopeful as the dawn,
And up my fluttering heart is borne aloft
As high and gladsome as the lark, and then,
As meeting in mid-flight the fowler's shaft,
It comes plumb down with such a dead, dead fall.

Clara.
And all the while is he, I nothing doubt,
As wayward and as love-sick as yourself.

Adriana.
He love-sick! No—it may be that he loves,
But if he does, 'tis in no sickly sort.
His nerves are made of other cord than ours;
He strays as is his wont along the Lis,
A careless angler with his rod and line;
And when he told me he must come to-night,
And that he then would lay a burden down
Too long in silence borne, so calm and strong
His voice, I doubted if it could be love
He harboured in his thoughts.

Clara.
Oh! much the doubt!
But this I knew; I read it written large
When answering with your vacant No and Yes

You fed upon your thoughts.

Adriana.
But honestly,
What think you? Think you that it must be love
He comes to speak of?

Clara.
Well, 'tis either that
Or else to tell you of what fish he caught.

Adriana.
Oh, do not tease me, Sweet; I am not well;
I cannot frisk and gambol.

Clara.
As you please;
But if your love's so lamentable sick,
Nurse it yourself: I'll go.

Adriana.
With all my heart;
You're too light-headed for my company.

Clara.
Is it with all your heart? Then I'll not go,
Or else I'll take you with me. Come, I say;
Your garden has its troubles like yourself
And lacks your tendance; from the soft south-west
The winds have broken in, and many a flower
Looks ruffled and is hanging down its head
Since the bold kissing of those wild intruders.
Come then with me; the dew is on the grass,
Two snails are running races, and ere night
A frog that jumps and stares and stares and jumps,
A little frog, light-headed if you will,
But having eyes to see, will know which wins.

University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.