These operations, it is like enough Between us two we two could make it out. But she would be so frightened—think it proof Of all her own imaginings. ’Twill not do; So as it is I must e’en put a cheery face on it, Suppress the whole, rub off the unfinished thoughts, For fear she read them. O, ’tis pity indeed, But confidence is the one and main thing now: Who loses confidence, he loses all. A demi-grain of cowardice in me Avowed, were poison to the whole mankind; When men are plentier, ’twill be time to try; At present, no. No; Shake it all up and go. That is the word, and that must be obeyed. I must be off. But yet again some day Again will I resume it; if not I, I in some child of late posterity. Yes, yes, I feel it; it is here the seed, Here in my head; but, O thou Power unseen, In whom we live and move and have our being, Let it not perish; grant, unlost, unhurt, In long transmission, this rich atom some day, In some posterity of distant years— How many thou intendest to have I know not— In some matured and procreant human brain, May germinate, burst, and rise into a tree. No; I shall not tell Eve. SCENE III. (‘_Now the birth of Cain was in this wise._’) _Adam and Eve._ _Eve._ Oh, Adam, I am comforted indeed; Where is he? O my little one! My heart is in the garden as of old, And Paradise come back. _Adam._ My love, Blessed be this good day to thee indeed; Blessed the balm of joy unto thy soul. A sad unskilful nurse was I to thee; But nature teaches mothers, I perceive. _Eve._ But you, my husband, you meantime, I feel, Join not your perfect spirit in my joy. No; your spirit mixes not, I feel, with mine. _Adam._ Alas! sweet love, for many a weary day, You and not I have borne this heavy weight: How can I, should I, might I feel your bliss, Now heaviness is changed to glory? Long, In long and unparticipated pangs, Your heart hath known its own great bitterness: How should, in this its jubilant release, A stranger intermeddle with its joy? _Eve._ My husband, there is more in it than this; Nay, you are surely, positively sad. _Adam._ What if I was (and yet I think I am not), ’Twere but the silly and contrarious mood Of one whose sympathies refuse to mix In aught not felt immediate from himself. But of a truth, Your joy is greater—mine seems therefore none. _Eve._ Nay, neither this I think nor that is true. Evermore still you love to cheat me, Adam: You hide from me your thoughts like evil beasts Most foolishly; for I, thus left to guess, Catch at all hints, and where perchance one is, People the forest with a hundred ills, Each worse perhaps a hundred times than it. No; you have got some fearful thoughts—no, no; Look not in that way on my baby, Adam— You do it hurt; you shall not!