Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous pride, ‘Go, cousin,’ I said coldly. ‘A farewell Was sooner spoken ’twixt a pair of friends In those old days, than seems to suit you now: And if, since then, I’ve writ a book or two, I’m somewhat dull still in the manly art Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any man Can carve a score of white Loves out of snow, As Buonarroti down in Florence there, And set them on the wall in some safe shade, As safe, sir, as your marriage! very good; Though if a woman took one from the ledge To put it on the table by her flowers, And let it mind her of a certain friend, ’Twould drop at once, (so better,) would not bear Her nail-mark even, where she took it up A little tenderly; so best, I say: For me, I would not touch so light a thing, And risk to spoil it half an hour before The sun shall shine to melt it: leave it there. I’m plain at speech, direct in purpose: when I speak, you’ll take the meaning as it is, And not allow for puckerings in the silks By clever stitches. I’m a woman, sir, And use the woman’s figures naturally, As you, the male license. So, I wish you well. I’m simply sorry for the griefs you’ve had— And not for your sake only, but mankind’s. This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.’ ‘If gratefuller,’ He murmured,—‘by so much less pitiable! God’s self would never have come down to die, Could man have thanked him for it.’ ‘Happily ’Tis patent that, whatever,’ I resumed, ‘You suffered from this thanklessness of men, You sink no more than Moses’ bulrush-boat, When once relieved of Moses; for you’re light, You’re light, my cousin! which is well for you, And manly. For myself,—now mark me, sir, They burnt Leigh Hall; but if, consummated To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, They had burnt instead a star or two, of those We saw above there just a moment back, Before the moon abolished them,—destroyed And riddled them in ashes through a sieve On the head of the foundering universe,—what then? If you and I remained still you and I, It would not shift our places as mere friends, Nor render decent you should toss a phrase Beyond the point of actual feeling!—nay, You shall not interrupt me: as you said, We’re parting. Certainly, not once or twice, To-night you’ve mocked me somewhat, or yourself; And I, at least, have not deserved it so That I should meet it unsurprised. But now, Enough: we’re parting ... parting. Cousin Leigh, I wish you well through all the acts of life And life’s relations, wedlock, not the least; And it shall ‘please me,’ in your words, to know