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Thy tardy, slow unwillingness, and all The strange demeanour of this day, too well Speak that which ev'n the smiles of Hebe's cheek, Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy, Could not gainsay.—Where hast thou been so long? Wilt thou not answer me?

You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon 'T is little past our usual hour of rest.

Thou dost evade the question. Not the time;— Where hast thou been?

Have patience—O have patience! Where I have been I have done thee no wrong: Let that suffice thee.

Ha! thou 'rt quick, methinks, To apprehend suspicion. Done no wrong! What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred band Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love, Pure, fervent, and confiding,—every thought, Fancy, and consciousness, that from thy husband, Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld, Is wrong to him, and is disgrace to thee.