THE LADY. Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave? THE MAN. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets such store by an apt word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--no: I have said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you must be fire-new-- THE LADY. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more accustomed to be listened to than preached at. THE MAN. The most are like that that do talk well. But though you spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am the king of words-- THE LADY. A king, ha! THE MAN. No less. We are poor things, we men and women-- THE LADY. Dare you call me woman? THE MAN. What nobler name can I tender you? How else can I love you? Yet you may well shrink from the name: have I not said we are but poor things? Yet there is a power that can redeem us. THE LADY. Gramercy for your sermon, sir. I hope I know my duty. THE MAN. This is no sermon, but the living truth. The power I speak of is the power of immortal poesy. For know that vile as this world is, and worms as we are, you have but to invest all this vileness with a magical garment of words to transfigure us and uplift our souls til earth flowers into a million heavens. THE LADY. You spoil your heaven with your million. You are extravagant. Observe some measure in your speech. THE MAN. You speak now as Ben does. THE LADY. And who, pray, is Ben? THE MAN. A learned bricklayer who thinks that the sky is at the top of his ladder, and so takes it on him to rebuke me for flying. I tell you there is no word yet coined and no melody yet sung that is extravagant and majestical enough for the glory that lovely words can reveal. It is heresy to deny it: have you not been taught that in the beginning was the Word? that the Word was with God? nay, that the Word was God? THE LADY. Beware, fellow, how you presume to speak of holy things. The Queen is the head of the Church. THE MAN. You are the head of my Church when you speak as you did at first. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! Can the Queen speak thus? They say she playeth well upon the virginals. Let her play so to me; and I'll kiss her hands. But until then, you are my Queen; and I'll kiss those lips that have dropt music on my heart. _[He puts his arms about her]._ THE LADY. Unmeasured impudence! On your life, take your hands from me. _The Dark Lady comes stooping along the terrace behind them like a running thrush. When she sees how they are employed, she rises angrily to her full height, and listens jealously._ THE MAN. _[unaware of the Dark Lady]_ Then cease to make my hands tremble with the streams of life you pour through them. You hold me as the lodestar holds the iron: I cannot but cling to you. We are lost, you and I: nothing can separate us now.