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I must re-lock the gate, for Isabel
Is grown too careless, and will let the sun
Illume the parting hour.
Isabel.
Farewell! Farewell!
Dear Julian, since it must be so; at night
Remember love thy weeping Isabel.
The Gate of the Garden.
Veronica.
Are they not sland'rous poets who have styled
The god of love a vagrant truant boy?—
'Tis sixteen months, I think, since thou hast played
The faithful fond adoring lover. Fie,
What a bad fashion dost thou set at court.
Nay, nay, confess the truth, thy love is feigned.
Julian.
It is the very essence of my being; life
Were valueless without it; love creates
A Paradise of bliss, and who would wake
From dreams delicious to a dull cold world?
