The flesh, fair youth--
Wal. Avaunt, bald snake, avaunt!
We are past your burrow now. Come, come, Lord Landgrave,
Look round, and find your saint.
Lewis. Alas! one such--
One such, I know, who upward from one cradle
Beside me like a sister--No, thank God! no sister!--
Has grown and grown, and with her mellow shade
Has blanched my thornless thoughts to her own hue,
And even now is budding into blossom,
Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still
Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,
And leave no living copies of its beauty
To after ages. Ah! be less, sweet maid,
Less than thyself! Yet no--my wife thou might'st be,
If less than thus--but not the saint thou art.
What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down
From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship?
That were a caitiff deed! Oh, misery!
Is wedlock treason to that purity,
Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock?
Elizabeth! my saint! [Exit Conrad.]
Wal. What, Sir? the Princess?
Ye saints in heaven, I thank you!
Lewis. Oh, who else,
Who else the minutest lineament fulfils
Of this my cherished portrait?
Wal.
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