And so, henceforth, I less could welcome him.
How could I do it,—with his views of her,
Yet wooing her?—He wellnigh made me doubt
If I might not mistake her,—doubt I check’d,
Flush’d fiercely soon that Elbert’s deeds could hint
Thought so unworthy. When I spoke to him,
He laugh’d me off.
“Why, man, I like your friend,
And she likes me; and with the other sex
The more we like, sometimes, the less we love—
Or think we love. Do I deceive her, then,
In showing friendliness?—Why think you so?—
Forsooth, if beauty pleases me, I smile;
If gracefulness beguile me, gaze at it;
If wisdom awe me, offer my respect.
Good art I laud; with fancy, am a poet;
And with emotion, an enthusiast.
What then?—Am I a hypocrite?—How so?—
Must all our sympathy be personal?
Must one appropriate all that he would praise?
Is beauty such a flower, or is a man
So much a beast, that, having taste for it,
He needs must go and gorge it down?—Go to!—
I watch the fair thing; of its fragrance quaff;
Then leave for others. Edith knows this well;
For that, trust her.”