Arden:  He loves you.

Astraea: 
               He loves me:  he has never understood. 
               He loves me as a creature of the flock;
               A little whiter than some others. 
               Yes; He loves me, as men love; not to uplift;
               Not to have faith in; not to spiritualize. 
               For him I am a woman and a widow
               One of the flock, unmarked save by a brand. 
               He said it!—­You confess it!  You have learnt
               To share his error, erring fatally.

Arden:  By whose advice went I to him?

Astraea: 
                              By whose? 
               Pursuit that seemed incessant:  persecution. 
               Besides, I have changed since then:  I change; I change;
               It is too true I change.  I could esteem
               You better did you change.  And had you heard
               The noble words this morning from the mouth
               Of our professor, changed were you, or raised
               Above love-thoughts, love-talk, and flame and flutter,
               High as eternal snows.  What said he else,
               My uncle Homeware?

Arden: 
                         That you were not free: 
               And that he counselled us to use our wits.

Astraea: 
               But I am free I free to be ever free! 
               My freedom keeps me free!  He counselled us? 
               I am not one in a conspiracy. 
               I scheme no discord with my present life. 
               Who does, I cannot look on as my friend. 
               Not free?  You know me little.  Were I chained,
               For liberty I would sell liberty
               To him who helped me to an hour’s release. 
               But having perfect freedom . . .

Arden:  No.

Astraea: 
               Good sir,
               You check me?

Arden:  Perfect freedom?

Astraea:  Perfect!

Arden:  No!

Astraea:  Am I awake?  What blinds me?

Arden: 
                                   Filaments
               The slenderest ever woven about a brain
               From the brain’s mists, by the little sprite called
                    Fancy. 
               A breath would scatter them; but that one breath
               Must come of animation.  When the heart
               Is as, a frozen sea the brain spins webs.

Astraea: 
               ’Tis very singular! 
               I understand. 
               You translate cleverly.  I hear in verse
               My uncle Homeware’s prose.  He has these notions. 
               Old men presume to read us.