HELENA: Why do
You call me so with struggle on your breast?
FULVIA: You're very fair.
HELENA: And was so free I thought
The world brimmed up with my full happiness.
FULVIA: But find it is a sieve to all but grief?
HELENA: Is it then grief? I have not any tears,
Yet seem girt by an emptiness that aches,
Surrounds and whispers, what I dare not think
Or, shapened, see.
FULVIA: It stains too as a shroud
The morrow's face?
HELENA: You look at me--I think
You look at me, as if----?
FULVIA: No child.
HELENA: Why am
I in this place? You fear for me?
FULVIA: Fear?
HELENA: Yes!
A dumb dread trembles from you sufferingly.
FULVIA: It is not fear. Or--no!--has vanished quite,
Ashamed of its too naked idleness.
HELENA (_shuddering_): He cannot, will not!--Yet you feared!
FULVIA: Be calm:
Beauty is better so.
HELENA: Ah, you are cold!
See a great shadow reach and wrap at me,
Yet lend no light! By gentleness I pray you,
What said he?