The tender impulse, play the hypocrite,
And school each guarded phrase to cold respect.
Isabel.
Oh, whilst I hang upon the melody
Of thy loved voice, list to the tender vow,
And wreathe my fingers in the crisped curls
That cluster o'er thy brow, no cankered care
Will dare intrude; and were there no restraint
Upon my foolish fondness, thou would'st soon
Grow weary, Julian, and mope, and pine,
Like a caged turtle for thy liberty.
Julian.
You wrong me by the thought, my beauteous queen;
I were unfit to share the joys of heaven,
If I could tire of Eden. Do not chide—
Thy meek lip knows not chiding; do not sigh
To hear thy Julian confess, even bliss
Like this is dearly purchased; 'gainst my king
I have offended, and my conscious soul
Dares not to commune with its dearest friend,
