Nay, into the vaults, were you to grow pale and need my vital warmth--down to the vaults! Speak--or no: look! That will do.

You hold a Titan in your eyes, like metal in the furnace, to turn him to any shape you please, liquid or solid.

You make him a god: he is the river Alvan or the rock Alvan: but fixed or flowing, he is lord of you.

That is the universal penalty: you must, if you have this creative soul, be the slave of your creature: if you raise him to heaven, you must be his! Ay, look! I know the eyes! They can melt granite, they can freeze fire.

Pierce me, sweet eyes! And now flutter, for there is that in me to make them.' 'Consider!' Clotilde flutteringly entreated him.
'The world?
you dear heaven of me! Looking down on me does not compromise you, and I am not ashamed of my devotions.