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MARIAN.

Better than thou! In all your stately city,

Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

ALICE.

Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature,

Whose beauty changes every other face
To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels;
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones
Of every other voice intruding harshness.

MARIAN.

And if there be, conceit will mar it all:

For too much homage, like the mid-day sun,
Withers the flower it brightens.

ALICE.

It may be so with others, not with her.

MARIAN.

Thou lovest her then?

ALICE.

O, yes! I love her dearly;

And if I did not, I should hate myself.
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep,
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here,
Begrudging her felicity. O, no!