She's a lithe burd, it's true; that, I suppose,
Is why you think her made of spirit,--unless
You've seen her angry: she has a blazing temper.--
But what's a girl's beauty meant for, but to rouse
Lust in a man? And where's the harm in that,--
In loving her because she's beautiful,
And in the way that drives me?--I dare say
My spirit loves her too. But if it does
I don't know what it loves.

_Morris_.
Why, man, her beauty
Is but the visible manners of her spirit;
And this you go to love by the filthy road
Which all the paws and hoofs in the world tread too!
God! And it's Jean whose lover runs with the herd
Of grunting, howling, barking lovers,--Jean!--

_Hamish_.
O spirit, spirit, spirit! What is spirit?
I know I've got a body, and it loves:
But who can tell me what my spirit's doing,
Or even if I have one?

_Morris_.
Well, it's strange,
My God, it's strange. A girl goes through the world
Like a white sail over the sea, a being
Woven so fine and lissom that her life
Is but the urging spirit on its journey,