ollows?
Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest
blue.
Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence--
Joining praises through the ages--Is it all a minstrel's dream?
Alas! he wakes. [Lewis rises.]

Lewis. Ah! faithless beauty,
Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed
I should be still the partner of your vigils,
And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay dissembling
When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:
Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.
Alas! what's this? These shoulders' cushioned ice,
And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,
And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious life-blood!
Who has done this?

Eliz. Forgive! 'twas I--my maidens--

Lewis. O ruthless hags!

Eliz. Not so, not so--They wept
When I did bid them, as I bid thee now
To think of nought but love.

Lewis. Elizabeth!
Speak! I will know the meaning of this madness!

Eliz. Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,
In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh
By such sharp lessons. I must tread their paths,
If I would climb the mountains where they rest.
Grief is the gate of bliss--why wedlock--knighthood--
A mother's joy--a hard-earned field of glory--
By tribulation come--so doth God's kingdom.

Lewis. But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures--
Are these the love of God? Is He well pleased
With this stern holocaust of health and joy?

Eliz. What! Am I not as gay a lady-love
As ever clipt in arms a noble knight?
Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?
It pleases me to bear what you call pain,
Therefore to me 'tis pleasure: joy and grief
Are the will's creatures; martyrs kiss the stake--
The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze--
The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count
His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,
Eve's curse lays suffering, as their natural lot,
On womankind, till custom makes it light.
I know the use of pain: bar not the leech
Because his cure is bitter--'Tis such medicine
Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion,
For which you say you love me.--Ay, which brings
Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy
As its attendant angel--I'll say no more--
Not even to thee--command, and I'll obey thee.

Lewis. Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder
Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom! Canst thou
Beatify the ascetic's savagery
To heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity,
And pity kindles to adoring shower
Of