Nisida. 
This, though not put quite so strong,
Was involved in the conclusion
Of my lay:  Love’s disillusion
Was the burden of my song.

Daria. 
Remedies and disillusions,
Seek ye both beneath one star? 
Ah! if so, you are not far
From its pains and its confusions: 
For the very fact of pleading
Disillusion, shows that thou
’Neath illusion’s yoke doth bow,—­
And the patient who is needing
Remedies doth prove that still
The sharp pang he doth endure,
For there ’s no one seeks a cure
Ere he feels that he is ill:—­
Therefore to this wrong proceeding
Grieved am I to see ye clinging—­
Seeking thou thy cure in singing—­
Thou thy remedy in reading.

Cynthia. 
Casual actions of this class
That are done without intention
Of a second end, to mention
Here were out of place:  I pass
To another point:  There ’s no one
Who with genius, or denied it,—­
Dowered with mind, but has applied it
Some especial track to go on: 
This variety suffices
For its exercise and action,
Just as some by free attraction
Seek the virtues and the vices;—­
This blind instinct, or this duty,
We three share;—­’t is thy delight
Nisida to sing,—­to write
Mine,—­and thine to adore thy beauty. 
Which of these three occupations
Is the best—­or those that need
Skill and labour to succeed,
Or thine own vain contemplations?—­
Have I not, when morning’s rays
Gladdened grove and vale and mountain,
Seen thee in the crystal fountain
At thyself enamoured gaze? 
Wherefore, once again returning
To our argument of love,
Thou a greater pang must prove,
If from thy insatiate yearning
I infer a cause:  the spell
Lighter falls on one who still,
To herself not feeling ill,
Would in other eyes seem well.

Daria. 
Ah! so far, so far from me
Is the wish as vain as weak—­
(Now my virtue doth not speak,
Now but speaks my vanity),
Ah! so far, I say, my breast
Turns away from things of love,
That the sovereign hand of Jove,
Were it to attempt its best,
Could no greater wonder work,
Than that I, Daria, should
So be changed in mind and mood
As to let within me lurk
Love’s minutest, smallest seed:—­
Only upon one condition
Could I love, and that fruition
Then would be my pride indeed.

Cynthia. 
What may that condition be?

Daria. 
When of all mankind, I knew
One who felt a love so true
As to give his life for me,
Then, until my own life fled,
Him, with gratitude and pride,
Were I sure that so he died,
I would love though he were dead.

Nisida. 
Poor reward for love so great
Were that tardy recollection,
Since, it seems, for thy affection
He, till life is o’er, must wait.

Cynthia. 
Soars thy vanity so high? 
Thy presumption is above
All belief:  be sure, for love
No man will be found to die.