_Melnotte._ I hold her in these arms—the last embrace! Never, ah, nevermore shall this dear head Be pillowed on the heart that should have sheltered And has betrayed! Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch! No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now! One kiss—so ends all record of my crime! It is the seal upon the tomb of Hope, By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits Sad Memory evermore. _Lady of Lyons._ * * * * * _De Mauprat._ [_To Julie, kissing her hand._] Ay; With my whole heart I love you!— [_To De Beringhen._] Now, sir, go, And tell that to his Majesty! Who ever Heard of its being a state-offence to kiss The hand of one’s own wife? _Richelieu._ TALFOURD. The widow of the moment fix her gaze Of longing, speechless love upon her babe, The only living thing which yet was hers, Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, Yet with attenuated hand wave off The unstricken child, and so embraceless die, Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart. _Ion._ * * * * * She scarcely raised Her head, until her work—a bridal robe— Hung dazzling on her arm; as then she sought Her chamber, I impressed one solemn kiss Upon her icy brow: then, as aroused From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw Her arms around my neck; and, whispering low, But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish Should rise to mar her duty to her lord. _Glencoe._ MISS MITFORD. He used to call me child, His dearest child; and when I grasped his hand Would hold me from him with a long fond gaze, And stroke my hair, and kiss my brow, and bid Heaven bless his sweet Camilla! And to-night Nought but to bed! to bed! _Foscari._ * * * * * _King._ [_To Cromwell._] Sir, Thou seest me with my children. Doth thine errand Demand their absence? _Cromwell._ No. I sent them to thee In Christian charity. Thou hast not fallen Among the heathen! _King._ Howsoever sent, It was a royal boon. My heart hath ached With the vain agony of longing love To look upon those blooming cheeks, to kiss Those red and innocent lips, to hear the sound Of those dear voices. _Charles the First._ PROCTER. Oh, Isidora, where— Where are you loitering now when Guido’s here? By the bright god of love, I’ll punish you, Idler, and press your rich red lips until The color flies. _Mirandola._ MRS. BROWNING.