I have done it: but how have I done it?

And what's this horrible thing to do with me?

How came it on the ground, here at my feet?

O I had better have shirkt it altogether!

What do I love? Not this; this is only A message that he left on earth for me, Signed by his spirit, that he had to go Upon affairs more worthy than my love.

We women must give place in our men's thoughts To matters such as those.

G.o.d, G.o.d, why must I love him? Why Must life be all one scope for the hawking wings Of Love, that none the mischief can escape?-- Well, I am thine for always now, my love, For this has been our wedding. No one else, Since thee I have had claspt unto my breast, May touch me lovingly.-- Light, it is light!

What shall I do with it, now I have got it?

O merciful G.o.d, must I handle it Again? I dare not; what is it to me?

Let me off this! Who is it clutches me By the neck behind? Who has hold of me Forcing me stoop down? Love, is it thou?

Spare me this service, thou who hast all else Of my maimed life: why wilt thou be cruel?

O grip me not so fiercely. Love! Ah no, I will not: 'tis abominable--

JEAN

I

_The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men_, MORRIS _and_ HAMISH.

_Hamish_.

Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk, Or drink, at least.

_Morris_.

I'm wondering about Love.

_Hamish_.

Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?

_Morris_.

I'm not in love; but altogether posed I am by lovers.

_Hamish_.

They're a simple folk: I'm one.

_Morris_.

It's you I'm mainly thinking of.

_Hamish_.

Why, that's an honour, surely.

_Morris_.

Now if I loved The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues; And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take!)--

_Hamish_.

You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?

_Morris_.

I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind Seems running on for ever: I would think A thought that was always tasting them would make The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell, Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.

_Hamish_.

Why specially Jean?

_Morris_.

Why Jean? The girl's all spirit!

_Hamish_.

She's a lithe burd, it's true; that, I suppose, Is why you think her made of spirit,--unless You've seen her angry: she has a blazing temper.-- But what's a girl's beauty meant for, but to rouse l.u.s.t in a man? And where's the harm in that,-- In loving her because she's beautiful, And in the way that drives me?--I dare say My spirit loves her too. But if it does I don't know what it loves.

_Morris_.

Why, man, her beauty Is but the visible manners of her spirit; And this you go to love by the filthy road Which all the paws and hoofs in the world tread too!

G.o.d! And it's Jean whose lover runs with the herd Of grunting, howling, barking lovers,--Jean!--

_Hamish_.

O spirit, spirit, spirit! What is spirit?

I know I've got a body, and it loves: But who can tell me what my spirit's doing, Or even if I have one?

_Morris_.

Well, it's strange, My G.o.d, it's strange. A girl goes through the world Like a white sail over the sea, a being Woven so fine and lissom that her life Is but the urging spirit on its journey, And held by her in shape and att.i.tude.

And all she's here for is that you may clutch Her spirit in the love of a mating beast!

_Hamish_.

Why, she has fifty lovers if she has one, And fifty's few for her.

_Morris_.

I'm going out.

If the night does me good, I'll come back here Maybe, and walk home with you.

_Hamish_.

O don't bother.

If I want spirit, it will be for drinking.

[MORRIS _goes out_.

Spirit or no, drinking's better than talking.

Who was the sickly fellow to invent That crazy notion spirit, now, I wonder?

But who'd have thought a burly lout like Morris Would join the brabble? Sure he'll have in him A pint more blood than I have; and he's all For loving girls with words, three yards away!

JEAN _comes in_.

_Jean_.

Alone, my boy? Who was your handsome friend?

_Hamish_.

Whoever he was he's gone. But I'm still here.

_Jean_.

O yes, you're here; you're always here.