_Hamish_.
Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.
_Morris_.
I'm wondering about Love.
_Hamish_.
Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?
_Morris_.
I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.
_Hamish_.
They're a simple folk:
I'm one.
_Morris_.
It's you I'm mainly thinking of.
_Hamish_.
Why, that's an honour, surely.
_Morris_.
Now if I loved
The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes
Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;
And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil
Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take!)--
_Hamish_.
You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?
_Morris_.
I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without
All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind
Seems running on for ever: I would think
A thought that was always tasting them would make
The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame
Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell,
Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.
_Hamish_.
Why specially Jean?
_Morris_.
Why Jean? The girl's all spirit!
_Hamish_.
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.
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