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stre-ength and craftiness to complete all the twelve labors
of Hercules.”
“Indeed,” broke in Mistress Ide Daa, “that is plainly
to be seen from the love of Mistress Dyre, which at least
completed one of the labors of Hercules, inasmuch as it
cleaned out chests and presses, even as he cleaned the
stable of Uriah—or whatever his name was—you know.”
“I would rather say” — Ulrik Frederik turned to Marie
Grubbe—“that love is like falling asleep in a desert and
waking in a balmy pleasure-garden, for such is the virtue
of love that it changes the soul of man, and that which was
barren now seems a very wonder of delight. But what are
your thoughts about love, fair Mistress Marie?”
“Mine?” she asked. “I think love is like a diamond;
for as a diamond is beautiful to look upon, so is love fair,
but as the diamond is poison to any one who swallows it,
in the same manner love is a kind of poison and produces
a baneful raging distemper in those who are infected by
it—at least if one is to judge by the strange antics one
may observe in amorous persons and by their curious
conversation.”
“Ay,” whispered Ulrik Frederik gallantly, “the candle
may well talk reason to the poor moth that is crazed by
its light!”
“Forsooth, I think you are right, Marie,” began Axel
Urup, pausing to smile and nod to her. “Yes, yes, we may
well believe that love is but a poison, else how can we
explain that coldblooded persons may be fired with the most
burning passion merely by giving them miracle-philtres
and love-potions?”
“Fie!” cried Mistress Sidsel; “don’t speak of such
terrible godless business—and on a Sunday, too!”
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