SIR PERTINAX: O voice beloved that might my dolour cure!
THE VOICE: O craven soldier! O most timid wooer! SIR PERTINAX: Craven am I,
yet lover--'t is most sure.
THE VOICE: But thou 'rt a man--at least meseemeth so.
SIR PERTINAX: And, being man, myself unworthy know,
Yet must I love and my belovèd seek
And, finding her, no words of love dare speak.
For this my love beyond all words doth reach,
And I'm slow-tongued and lack the trick of speech.
Nor hope have I that she should stoop to bless,
A man so full of all unworthiness.
So am I dumb--
THE VOICE: And yet dost speak indeed,
Such words, methinks, as any maid might heed.
“Ha, think ye so in verity, sweet voice!” cried Sir Pertinax, and springing
lightly to earth, strode forward on eager feet. And lo! from behind a
certain tree stepped one who, letting fall shrouding cloak and hood, stood
there a maid, dark-haired and darkly bright of eye, very shapely and fair
to see in her simple tire. And beholding her thus, the tender curve of
scarlet lips, the flutter of slender hands, the languorous bewitchment of
her eyes, Sir Pertinax halted.
My daughter GILLIAN interpolateth: