No More Learning

Love, is it thou?
Spare me this service, thou who hast all else
Of my maimed life: why wilt thou be cruel?
O grip me not so fiercely. Love! Ah no,
I will not: 'tis abominable--




JEAN


I

_The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men_, MORRIS
_and_ HAMISH.

_Hamish_.
Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.

_Morris_.
I'm wondering about Love.

_Hamish_.
Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?

_Morris_.
I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.

_Hamish_.
They're a simple folk:
I'm one.

_Morris_.
It's you I'm mainly thinking of.

_Hamish_.
Why, that's an honour, surely.

_Morris_.
Now if I loved
The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes
Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;
And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil
Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take! )--

_Hamish_.
You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?

_Morris_.
I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without
All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind
Seems running on for ever: I would think
A thought that was always tasting them would make
The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame
Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell,
Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.

_Hamish_.
Why specially Jean?

_Morris_.