Cleopatra · Book II · Chapter 2 13 (2/2)

“Love counts not its labour, Charmion, nor can it weight its tenderness on the scale of purchase. That which it has it gives, and craves for more to give and give, till the soul’s infinity be drained. Dear to thy heart are these heavy nights of watching; sweet to thy weary eyes is that sad sight of strength brought so low that it hangs upon thy weakness like a babe to its mother’s breast! For, Charmion, thou dost love this man who loves thee not, and now that he is helpless thou canst pour thy passion forth over the unanswering darkness of his soul, and cheat thyself with dreams of what yet might be.”

“I love him not, as thou hast proof, O Queen! How can I love one who would have slain thee, who art as my heart’s sister? It is for pity that I nurse him.”

She laughed a little as she answered, “Pity is love’s own twin, Charmion. Wondrous wayward are the paths of woman’s love, and thou hast shown thine strangely, that I know. But the more high the love, the deeper the gulf whereinto it can fall⁠—ay, and thence soar again to heaven, once more to fall! Poor woman! thou art thy passion’s plaything: now tender as the morning sky, and now, when jealousy grips thy heart, more cruel than the sea. Well, thus are we made. Soon, after all this troubling, nothing will be left thee but tears, remorse, and⁠—memory.”

And she went forth.