THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY 13
ULRIC.
My Cora! old! But urgently a word
Came of some purpose. - I am half afraid
To hear it—and yourself! Reluctance sits
Doggéd against the will to speak. Dear friend,
Let us sit close and whisper.
GORA.
Listen, then!
You are grown man: young men seek happiness.
Is there one joy your soul hath never felt ?
One pure sweet passion ?
ULRIC.
Sweet! you speak of love!
You must have guessed I meant to question you,
And smoothed the passage to my modesty.
CORA, with bitter sorrow at her heart.
You make me very glad. Yes, yes, indeed, ,
Love is my meaning. Does it shame me much
To talk so openly of love to you ?
But I am old enough to be—to be
ULRIC.
My wife! O Cora, I have loved you so!
My heart is like a fountain of the sea.
I burn, I tremble; in my veins there swims
A torrid ecstasy of madness. Ah!
Ah God! I kiss you, kiss you! O you faint!