coveted but loved her not, and fancied her sarsnet equal, loving her even to the extent of her train and ruffles: talked of old age, of death, of Heaven, of God: whereat she trembled, and cried out for mercy; shed tears upon my neck; begged me to help her; noted the secret silence of the night, and her mind stirred with agony. She slept no more that night: in the morn she arose with unpressed lips."
"Well, well, how did this work?"
"Now you have struck me here on the breast. Will you believe it? In the unscreening daylight, five heartless lords, forsooth, in silken suits, 'did ravel all this matter out,' by playing with her fan, and making bad comparisons."
"And do you love her still?"
"Oh! Edmund! Each day we walk some paces towards our grave: between this step and the last nothing can do me good but only she. Do I love her? Thou hast never seen her lip, her hand, her eye; nor known of her good soul so turned to bad; for if you had you would let me take thy cloth to wipe away these tears."
Edmund did all in his power to comfort him, seeing the nobleness of his unfortunate passion, and that he was not allied to her dishonour; sent privily for money, and laid it in his chamber, and helped him to this woman's company, as
