Twice godlike, twice heroic,—still he limps,
And here’s the point we come to.’
⁠‘Pardon me,
But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing
We never come to.’
⁠‘Caustic, insolent
At need! I like you’—(there, she took my hands)
‘And now my lioness, help Androcles,
For all your roaring. Help me! for myself
I would not say so—but for him. He limps
So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit
A week hence,—so I lose him—so he is lost!
And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh,
To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth,
Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands
Are whiter than her morals,—you, for one,
May call his choice most worthy.’
⁠‘Married! lost!
He, . . . Romney!’
⁠‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said.
‘These monsters, set out in the open sun,
Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think
Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he?
And who but you can wonder? He has been mad,
The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man,
He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits,
With equal scorn of triangles and wine,
And took no honours, yet was honourable.