Classic Poem

  Giul. I HUNGER for her, and am all athirst!
Her scorn affronts me, and doth make me mad.
Mine eyes— these eyes, are wet with heavy drops!
Would'st think me such a fool?
  Ferd. If she disdain thee,
Love, and be quiet, coz.
  Giul. How? What? Be still?
Dost think I am a wild beast tamed by wrongs?
If one, I am the hyæna!—for he sheds tears,
And bites the while he's howling:—but, I'm quiet!
  Ferd. I thought thou lov'dst a rose cheek'd-girl, and merry;
A laugher of sixteen summers; such there are:
But she is paler than a primrose morning,
When Winter weds with Spring!
  Giul. 'Tis all the better.
It is my nature to abhor in others,
That lightness which doth please me in myself.
I love not mine own parallel. The old giants,
Who stood as tall as trees, lov'd little women,
Or there's no truth in fable. Thus do I:
I love a sober face, a modest eye,
A step demure, a mien as grave as virtue.