So it is Love's young bliss that will not brave
The voyage over vaulted Ocean's wave,
But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun,
Its face should fill with glory, <g>making</g> one!
Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie,
Give things the names we ought to know them by;
Call widows' passion—wanting what they miss,
And wedlock's <g>habit</g>—call it what it is!
Strawman.
Young man, this insolence has gone too far!
In every word there's scoffing and defiance.
[Goes close up to Falk.
Now I'll gird up my aged loins to war
For hallowed custom against modern science!
Falk.
I go to battle as it were a feast!
Strawman.
Good! For your bullets I will be a beacon!—
[Nearer.
A wedded pair is holy, like a priest—
Stiver [at Falk's other side].
And a betrothed—
Falk.
Half-holy, like the deacon.
