GUENDOLEN.

Art thou nor man nor woman?

CAMBER.

Nay--I trust -
Man.

GUENDOLEN.

And hast heart to make thy spoil of me?

CAMBER.

Would God I might!

GUENDOLEN.

Thou art made of lies and lust -
Earth's worst is all too good for such to see,
And yet thine eyes turn heavenward--as they must,
Being man's--if man be such as thou--and soil
The light they see. Thou hast made of me thy spoil,
Thy scorn, thy profit--yea, my whole soul's plunder
Is all thy trophy, thy triumphal prize
And harvest reaped of thee; nay, trampled under
And rooted up and scattered. Yet the skies
That see thy trophies reared are full of thunder,
And heaven's high justice loves not lust and lies.