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.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70