"'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In my heart's table,--heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor."
How frank and strong is the expression of her love! The lines are
chiselled by a delicate distinctness: they suggest her profile. The
verse has the high instep of a woman who can be haughty enough to crush
the blossoms of this new, surprising sentiment.
She does not half listen to the gossip of Parolles. It is the absent
Bertram who is drawing her thoughts to wander in the distance, to be in
imagination for him
"A thousand loves,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster."