Which will require good 'tendance; and for this
My father and myself have pledged ourselves,
In kindness to the suffering.
Her. Methought I heard sweet music, when I first
Entered your vine-wreathed cottage; did I so?
Azlea. You may have heard a simple melody
With which I sung the invalid to rest.
Her. You did then sing the stranger to his rest,
And your fair hands have bathed his aching brow,
And your sweet voice has whispered tenderness,
And you have ministered to his every want
With most unsparing kindness. Azlea,
This stranger here is young; is of the world;
'Tis true he may be good and virtuous,
But there are few who are; nay, blush not, child,
With such a pained look; I did not mean
What thou hast done is wrong, in being kind—
But in the world of which this stranger is,
Such innocence as thine meets sneering taunts—
Being deemed by its misjudging sinfulness,
Other than what it is. Art weeping, sweet?
Nay, weep not, I was wrong; and now I think,
While gazing on thee and thy mournful face,
Not any but the vilest could withstand
The power of thy guileless purity.
I would not take thy unsuspecting truth,
And give thee all earth's wisdom, and its wealth,
For thou wouldst be the loser.
Azlea. Father, if in aught I have transgressed,
Even the world's stern code of modest action,
I should be bitterly grieved; and thou art right
To wain me of my folly. Azlea
Knows little of the world, and would not learn
