Lewis. Thou dost tempt me--
That were a knightly quest.
Con. Ay, here's true love.
Love's heaven, without its hell; the golden fruit
Without the foul husk, which at Adam's fall
Did crust it o'er with filth and selfishness.
I tempt thee heavenward--from yon azure walls
Unearthly beauties beckon--God's own mother
Waits longing for thy choice--
Lewis. Is this a dream?
Wal. Ay, by the Living Lord, who died for you!
Will you be cozened, Sir, by these air-blown fancies,
These male hysterics, by starvation bred
And huge conceit? Cast off God's gift of manhood,
And, like the dog in the adage, drop the true bone
With snapping at the sham one in the water?
What were you born a man for?
Lewis. Ay, I know it:--
I cannot live on dreams. Oh for one friend,
Myself, yet not myself; one not so high
But she could love me, not too pure to pardon
My sloth and meanness! Oh for flesh and blood,
Before whose feet I could adore, yet love!
How easy then were duty! From her lips
To learn my daily task;--in her pure eyes
To see the living type of those heaven-glories
I dare not look on;--let her work her will
Of love and wisdom on these straining hinds;--
To squire a saint around her labour field,
And she and it both mine:--That were possession!
Con.
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