31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know That virtuous men forsake so willingly Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go.
32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, Which if your pity in my fall procures, I still shall value the advancement high, Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.'
33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense.
34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; Not taken from the Attic silver mine, Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine:
35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time.
36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male Progenitors, was to the loyal she On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee:
37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, And that the emerald is the bridal stone:
38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, And will, when worn by the neglected wife, Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, By faintness, and a pale decay of life.
39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep.
40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, Who may in all your kinder fears be sent To watch at court, if I deserve to die By making this to fade, and you lament.'
41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, He must have fancied first, in early dawn, A sudden break of beauty out of night.
42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, A rosy morn begin a sudden spring.
43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown?