(_He
sits at her feet on the "throne."_)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_Reads_):
TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.
(_Looks down at him and smiles._)
Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,
Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,
Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.
Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
Dowers thee with her own eternity;
Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude
O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.
Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.
Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!
I ask no pity, I demand but pain:
And if I love thee, what is that to thee?
It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.
Denham.
That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be
unintelligible it _must_ be fine. It means "_mes hommages_!"
(_Kisses her hand._) And now come down! (_He hands her down from the
"throne"._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with a shy laugh, crosses_ R) But you don't mean to say
that you have said all those fine words about me?
Denham.
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