Harold monologue (Act 8) — Queen Mary; and, Harold

Edith, Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have lost Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath, Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou Our living passion for a dead man's dream; Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. Oh God! I cannot help it, but at times They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths Of this grown world of ours, whose baby eye Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear This curse, and scorn it. But a little light!-- And on it falls the shadow of the priest; Heaven yield us more! for better, Woden, all Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim Walhalla, Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace The Holiest of our Holiest one should be This William's fellow-tricksters;--better die Than credit this, for death is death, or else Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me--thou art not A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear There might be more than brother in my kiss, And more than sister in thine own.