_Jean_.
And you are mine,
My sweetheart!--And now, Morris, now you know
Why you are the man that ought to frighten me!--
Morris, I love you so!

_Morris_.
O, but better than this,
Jean, you must love me. You must never think
I'm like the heartless men you wait on here,
Whose love is all a hunger that cares naught
How hatefully endured its feasting must be
By her who fills it, so it be well glutted!

_Jean_.
I did not say I was afraid of you;
But only that, perhaps, I ought to be.

_Morris_.
No, no, you never ought. My love is one
That will not have its passion venturous;
It knows itself too fine a ceremony
To risk its whole perfection even by one
Unruly thought of the luxury in love.
Nay, rather it is the quietness of power,
That knows there is no turbulence in life
Dare the least questioning hindrance set against
The onward of its going,--therefore quiet,
All gentle. But strong, Jean, wondrously strong!