They tell me of love, and my very life of the stage breathes the language of love into my lips.

No; again and again, I know THAT is not the love that I feel for thee!--it is not a passion, it is a thought! I ask not to be loved again.

I murmur not that thy words are stern and thy looks are cold.

I ask not if I have rivals; I sigh not to be fair in thine eyes.

It is my SPIRIT that would blend itself with thine.