That was not the way I ended it first--but unsymmetrically,
preposterously, illogically, out of passion, without art--like a song
of the people. Will you have it? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn
Cupid at the King's left breast, and all left-handedness and
under-handedness.
And never a flower at the close,
Over and gone with the roses,
Not over and gone with the rose.
True, one rose will outblossom the rest, one rose in a bower. I speak
after my fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you know, and won the violet
at Toulouse; but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, a nightingale
out of season; for marriage, rose or no rose, has killed the golden
violet.
BECKET.
Madam, you do ill to scorn wedded love.
ELEANOR.
So I do. Louis of France loved me, and I dreamed that I loved Louis
of France: and I loved Henry of England, and Henry of England dreamed
that he loved me; but the marriage-garland withers even with the
putting on, the bright link rusts with the breath of the first
after-marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of the harvest,
and the honeymoon is the gall of love; he dies of his honeymoon.
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