ALBOVINE.

This is no matter of the wars: in war
Thy king, old friend, is less than king of thine,
And comrade less than follower. Hast thou loved
Ever--loved woman, not as chance may love,
But as thou hast loved thy sword or friend--or me?
Thou hast shewn me love more stout of heart than death.
Death quailed before thee when thou gav'st me life,
Borne down in battle.

NARSETES.

Woman? As I love
Flowers in their season. A rose is but a rose.

ALBOVINE.

Dost thou know rose from thistle or bindweed? Man,
Speak as our north wind speaks, if harsh and hard -
Truth.

NARSETES.

White I know from red, and dark from bright,
And milk from blood in hawthorn-flowers: but not
Woman from woman.

ALBOVINE.