Harold monologue (Act 8) — Becket and other plays

But sure am I that of your gentleness You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd A miracle of gentleness--would not blur A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush The fly that drew her blood; and, were she living, Would not--if penitent--have denied him _her_ Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself, When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart In looking on a chill and changeless Past? Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past Remains the Past. But you are young, and--pardon me-- As lovely as your sister. Who can tell What golden hours, with what full hands, may be Waiting you in the distance? Might I call Upon your father--I have seen the world-- And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales?