Chaste, sayeth she? Waste, say I!
What will medicine know of her perfection? A suffering man consumed with the horror of his illness shan’t recognize the grace of her hands as they minister to him! Hands made to caress doomed to cleansing wounds, setting bones, bleeding the sickness from victims blinded by malady who will ne‘er know nor care that ’tis a maid of most divine loveliness who heals them. Wherefore doth she wish to misuse her magnificence, to squander her splendor this way?
Rosaline is as this sad spray of lilies I embrace in her stead—the very ones she picked from my garden—listless now, and languid. Unloved they are, their beauty cast off, their legacy unrealized—and no buzzing insect
shall ever carry away the powdery glory of such sweet scented blooms to live on in newborn buds.
’Tis clear Rosaline knows not what she shall be missing.
Nay, I will not quit my devotion nor abandon my pursuit. For I must truly love her to yearn for her as I do, mustn’t I?
Aye, I must.