Too cold a language, for his gentle mouth,
Which has a music like the lisping child.
The loving heart delighteth in old songs;
They say so many things we wish to say,
And wake our sympathies, and make us feel
Less strange ourselves. Others have loved as well,
And left these tender relics of their love.
Mother.
You think of nothing else. This will not last.
Youth and fair Love have their appointed time;
They pass, and then we care for other things.
Clara (shuddering.)
Let that day come, and it will come like death,
Cold, fearful; but thou liest too near my heart
To be forgotten: other loves may pass
The vain, the cautious—not a love like mine.
(Egmont enters, his mantle folded round him.
Clara at first stands as if overpowered, and
then springs towards him. The Mother
makes him welcome, and, after a few words,
hurries, to prepare supper.)
Clara.
What ails my love, that thus with folded arms
He stands aloof? and yet love, mine, you smile.
The watching soldier wraps him in his cloak.
Egmont.
Sweet one, the lover has his ambush too—
Disguising.
Clara.
Ah! what would my lover be?
Egmont.
Whate'er you please!
(Throws off his cloak, appears in a splendid
garb, and clasps her in his arms.)
Clara.
I pray thee, loose me, for I fear to spoil
Your rich array! How glorious you are!
