On the sea-coast. Three young men_, SYLVAN, VALENTINE,
_and_ FRANCIS.

_Valentine_.
Well, I suppose you're out of your fear at last,
Sylvan. This land's empty enough; naught here
Feminine but the hens, bitches, and cows.
Now we are safe!

_Francis_.
Horribly safe; for here,
If there are wives at all, they are salted so
They have no meaning for the blood, bent things
Philosophy allows not to be women.

_Valentine_.
But think of the husbands that must spend their nights
Alongside skin like bark. It is the men
That have the tragedy in these weather'd lands.

_Francis_.
No thought of that! We are monks now. And, indeed,
This is a cloister that a man could like,
This blue-aired space of grassy land, that here,
Just as it touches the sea's bitter mood,
Is troubled into dunes, as it were thrilled,
Like a calm woman trembling against love.

_Sylvan_.
Woman again!--How, knowing you, I failed
So long to know the truth, I cannot think.

_Francis_.
And what's the truth?

_Sylvan_.
Woman and love of her
Is as a dragging ivy on the growth
Of that strong tree, man's nature!

_Valentine_.
Yes. But now
Tell us a simpler sort of truth. Was she---

_Sylvan_.
She? Who?

_Valentine_.
Katrina, of course: who else, when one
Speaks of a she to you?

_Sylvan_.
And what about her?

_Valentine_.
Was she too cruel to you, or too kind?

_Sylvan_.
Ah, there's no hope for men like you; you're sunk
Above your consciences in smothering ponds
Of sweet imagination,--drowned in woman!

_Francis_.
Ay? Clarence and the Malmesey over again;
'Twas a delightful death.

_Valentine_.
But you forget.
Sylvan, we've come as your disciples here.

_Sylvan_.
Yes, to a land where not the least desire
Need prey upon your mettle. There are hours
A god might gladly take in these basking dunes,--
Nothing but summer and piping larks, and air
All a warm breath of honey, and a grass
All flowers--sweet thyme and golden heart's-ease here!
And under scent and song of flowers and birds,
Far inland out of the golden bays the air
Is charged with briny savour, and whispered news
Gentle as whitening oats the breezes stroke.
What good is all this health to you? You bring
Your own thoughts with you; and they are vinegar,
Endlessly rusting what should be clear steel.

_Francis_.
I do begin to doubt our enterprise,
The grand Escape from Woman. It lookt brave
And nobly hazardous afar off, to cease
All wenchi