Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends
That were not lovers; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love; we'd read no books
That were not tales of love--that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
We'd guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?

Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee like Pauline?

Mel. [bitterly.] Oh, false one!
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue;--Pauline,
That is not love!

Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!
At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;
But now,--oh! trust me,--couldst thou fall from power
And sink--

Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?--

Pauline. Even then,
Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame;
But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
We cling till death!

Mel. Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!
It must not be; her love hath grown a torture
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.
I have business with these gentlemen--I--I
Will forwith join you.

Pauline. Do not tarry long! [Exit.

Enter BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.

Mel. Release me from my oath,--I will not marry her!

Beau Then thou art perjured.

Mel. No, I was not in my senses when I swore to thee to marry her! I
was blind to all but her scorn!--deaf to all but my passion and my rage!
Give me back my povert