‘You,’ she cried,
‘Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk
An hour long to you,—I instruct you how
You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit
Or even die, like any decent wretch
In all this unroofed and unfurnished world,
Without your cousin,—and you still maintain
There’s room ’twixt him and you, for flirting fans
And running knots in eyebrows! You must have
A pattern lover sighing on his knee:
You do not count enough a noble heart,
Above book-patterns, which this very morn
Unclosed itself, in two dear fathers’ names,
To embrace your orphaned life! fie, fie! But stay
I write a word, and counteract this sin.’
She would have turned to leave me, but I clung.
‘O sweet my father’s sister, hear my word
Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well,
And Romney well,—and I well too,
In casting back with all my strength and will
The good they meant me. O my God, my God!
God meant me good, too, when he hindered me
From saying‘yes’ this morning. If you write
A word, it shall be ‘no.’ I say no, no!
I tie up ‘no’ upon His altar-horns
Quite out of reach of perjury! At least
My soul is not a pauper; I can live
At least my soul’s life, without alms from men,
