Which never shall bear fruit, but inward still
Resorb its vital nectar, self-contained,
And leave no living copies of its beauty
To after ages. Ah! be less, sweet maid,
Less than thyself! Yet no--my wife thou might'st be,
If less than thus--but not the saint thou art.
What! shall my selfish longings drag thee down
From maid to wife? degrade the soul I worship?
That were a caitiff deed! Oh, misery!
Is wedlock treason to that purity,
Which is the jewel and the soul of wedlock?
Elizabeth! my saint! [Exit Conrad.]

Wal. What, Sir? the Princess?
Ye saints in heaven, I thank you!

Lewis. Oh, who else,
Who else the minutest lineament fulfils
Of this my cherished portrait?

Wal. So--'tis well.
Hear me, my Lord.--You think this dainty princess
Too perfect for you, eh? That's well again;
For that whose price after fruition falls
May well too high be rated ere enjoyed--
In plain words,--if she looks an angel now, you will be better mated
than you expected, when you find her--a woman. For flesh and blood
she is, and that young blood,--whom her childish misusage and your
brotherly love; her loneliness and your protection; her springing
fancy and (for I may speak to you as a son) your beauty and knightly