Ozias. 
This is but superstition.  Love belongs
To living souls.  It is a light that kills
Shadows and ghosts haunting about the mind. 
Yea, even now when death glooms so immense
Over the heaven of our being, Love
Would keep us white with day amid the dark
Down-coming of the storm, till the end took us. 
And joy is never wasted.  If we love,
Then although death shall break and bray our flesh,
The joy of love that thrilled in it shall fly
Past his destruction, subtle as fragrance, strong
And uncontrollable as fire, to dwell
In the careering onward of man’s life,
Increasing it with passion and with sweetness. 
Duty is on us therefore that we love
And be loved.  Wert thou made to set alight
Such splendour of desire in man, and yet,
For a grave’s sake, keep all thy beauty null,
And nothing be of good nor help to thy kind?

Judith.  Help?  What help in me?

Ozias. 
     To let go forth
The joy whereof thy beauty is the sign
Into the mind of man, and be therein
Courage of golden music and loud light
Against his enemies, the eternal dark
And silence.

Judith. 
     Ah, not thus.  Yet—­could I not help?—­
Why talk we?  What thing should I say to thee
To pierce the pride of lust wrapping thy heart? 
How show thee that, as in maidens unloved
There is virginity to make their sex
Shrink like a wound from eyes of love untimely,
So in a woman who hath learnt herself
By her own beauty sacred in the clasp
Of him whom her desire hath sacred made,
There is a fiercer and more virgin wrath
Against all eyes that come desiring her?

[A Psalm of many voices strikes their ears, and through the street pass old men chanting, followed and answered by a troop of young men.

Chorus:  Old Men.  Wilt thou not examine our hearts, O Lord God of our strength?  Wilt thou still be blindly trying us?  Wilt thou not at length Believe the crying of our words, that never our knees have bent To foreign gods, nor any Jewish mouth or brain hath sent Prayers to beseech the favour of abominable thrones Worshipt by the heathen men with furnaces, wounds, and groans?

Young Men. 
And what good in our lives, strength or delighted glee,
  Hath God paid to purchase our purity? 
Though lust starve in our flesh, still he devises fire
  To prove our lives pure as his fierce desire. 
With huge heathenish tribes roaring exultant here,
  Jewry fights as maid with a ravisher: 
  Tribes who better than we deal with the gods their lords,
For they pleasantly sin, yet the gods sharpen and drive their swords.

Old Men.  Hast thou not tried us enough, Jehovah?  Hast thou found any fire Will draw from our hearts a smoke of burn’d idolatrous desire?  There is none in us, Lord:  no other God in us but thee; Only thy fires make our clean souls glitter with agony.  Pure we are, pure in our prayers, pure our souls look to thee, Lord; And to be shewn to the world devoured by evil is our reward.