Part 3 (2/2)
Again, Your pardon: but ye need not gaze on me.-- And yet, why am I sorrowful? In truth, Is it a sorrow that so leans upon me?
I know not. But my soul knoweth right well That I am watched.
_3rd Woman_.
Then in thy conscience, Queen, Thou feelest the King requiring thanks of thee.
_Vashti_.
Be careful of thy tongue,--and of the wine.-- Who watches me? Eyes are fixt on my soul, Eyes of desire. I think some great event Hath pusht its spirit forward of its time, To stand here quietly waiting, into my mind Inflicting its strange want of me, and ready To fetch my heart, and ready to take my hand And lead me away shrinking: is it Death?
It is some marvellous thing: for I know surely Behind it crowd out of their discipline The coming hours to watch me seized, and stare With questioning brows on me, and lift lean hands From under gowns of shadow to point me out One to another, saying: ”This is she: How will she bear it, think ye?”--Is it not cold?
Was there not wind just then?--The flames are steady.
_1st Woman_.
No wind at all: the air's like one closed room.
_2nd Woman_.
There is no talk like this at the King's feast, I warrant. Were we not best be merry, And thank the King so for these wines and sweets?
_Vashti_.
Yes, let us not forget our thankfulness; For is not, sisters, everything we have Mere gift?
_2nd Woman_.
My beauty pays for what I get.
_Vashti_.
I would, 'twere not so.
_2nd Woman_.
Queen, I doubt thee not.
_Vashti_.
Pert little fool, where lies thy beauty, then?
Thou hast it not: its place is not thy flesh, But the delighting loins of men, there only.
Thy beauty! And thou knowest not that man Hath forged in his furnace of desire our beauty Into that chain of law which binds our lives-- Man, please thyself, and woman, please thou man.
But thou wilt have thy beauty pence, thou sayest?
And what's thy purchase? Listen, I will tell thee: Just that thou art not whipt and drudged: the rest, All that thou hast beyond, is gift.
_2nd Woman_.
Why not?
_Vashti_.
Truly, for thee, why not?
_2nd Woman_.
Wouldst thou, 'twere yours?
_1st Woman_.
Thou shudderest again; what ails thee, Queen?
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