_Aris._ O, I am wounded in the character I sought to build so giant-like that as A figure on the skies all men would see And longing upward scorn their baser state! Now am I grown deform�d with a scar That all eternity can not make fair. ... To go ... nor say farewell. To go ... to go, And see no more her face ... that face which is Imagination sighing in a word. That face where Beauty with her mysteries Sits listening to Magi of the air, Or ocean lapping on eternal sands. 'Tis as a star should to a flower turn, And yet remember heaven. [_Approaches curtains and kneels_] Fare thee well! O thou whose body is a living urn Full of distill�d sweets from every mead Where Love hath set a flower! Whose soul compacts All earth's divinity, and leaves profane All space where it is not! [_Arises and starts out slowly. At the door he looks back. Aratea appears at curtains, but does not see him_] O, I must fly ... Must fly ... nor hear again her voice that lures As it would draw the fallen golden world O'er desert ages to man's memory. _Ara._ [_Sees him and advances_] You here, Aristocles? _Aris._ Wilt say farewell? _Ara._ [_Going back_] Farewell. _Aris._ No word but that? _Ara._ That is too much. _Aris._ [_Approaching_] Too much? _Ara._ I--faint again. Nay, touch me not! _Aris._ Am I so perilous to thee? My hand Has had no commerce yet with cruelty. _Ara._ The moon with silver foot steps not more soft Among the tears of night than falls thy touch On me, who, poorer than the night, must go Uncomforted. Thou'lt leave this place at once If thou hast pity. _Aris._ Ah, had I a heart Great-swelling as the sad Molurian mount, Or pil�d peaks that wreck the sailing moon, 'Twere not enough to melt upon this woe! _Ara._ Wretched, O wretched me! To be the curse Of what is best on earth! _Aris._ Peace, unjust lips! Thou art a rose that, rooted in Elysium, Leans sorrowing to the world that it may see What beauty is and know then how to dream. O, close those other worlds, your eyes, that I May live in this! [_She moves back_] Stay, I must speak! _Ara._ No, no! _Aris._ And you must hear me. _Ara._ Silence, sir, is best. In her deep bosom let our woes be buried, As Night doth shepherd all the cares of day Till Heaven think the world asleep, though 'neath The dark are hot and staring eyes.