But sire I should not call thee.
ALBOVINE.
Surely, no.
I bade thee speak: I did not bid thee sing:
Thou canst not speak and sing not.
ROSAMUND.
Albovine,
I had at heart a simple thing to crave
And thought not on thy flatteries--as I think not
Now. Knowest thou not my handmaid Hildegard
Free-born, a noble maiden?
ALBOVINE.
And a fair
As ever shone like sundawn on the snows.
ROSAMUND.
I had at heart to plead for her with thee.
ALBOVINE.
Plead? hast thou found her noble maidenhood
Ignobly turned unmaidenlike? I may not
Lightly believe it.
ROSAMUND.
Believe it not at all.
Wouldst thou think shame of me--lightly? She loves
As might a maid whose kin were northern gods
The fairest-faced of warriors Lombard born,
Thine Almachildes.
ALBOVINE.
If he loves not her,
More fool is he than warrior even, though war
Have wakened laughter in his eyes, and left
His golden hair fresh gilded, when his hand
Had won the crown that clasps a boy's brows close
With first-born sign of battle.
ROSAMUND.
No such fool
May live in such a warrior; if he love not
Some loveliness not hers. No face as bright
Crowned with so fair a Mayflower crown of praise
Lacked ever yet love, if its eyes were set
With all their soul to loveward.
ALBOVINE.
Ay?
ROSAMUND.
I know not
A man so fair of face.
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