sits at her feet on the "throne."_)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_Reads_):

TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

(_Looks down at him and smiles._)

Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,
Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,
Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.
Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
Dowers thee with her own eternity;
Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude
O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.
Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.
Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!
I ask no pity, I demand but pain:
And if I love thee, what is that to thee?

It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.

Denham.

That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be