Section 8 of 22 - Table of Contents
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SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Aless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas_. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly--a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
Not even deep sorrow--
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_Aless_. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas_. I will drop them.
_Aless_. Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas_. I'll see to it.
_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas_. Much, much, oh, much I want
In proper dignity.
_Aless.
(haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cos.
(abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless_. Heard I aright?
I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
Sir Count!
(_places her hand on his shoulder_)
what art thou dreaming?
He's not well!
What ails thee, sir?
_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio_.
_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
--what's the matter?
(_observing Alessandra_).
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
_Aless_. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
And little given to thinking?
_Di Brog_. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
_Aless_. 'Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer, and shut out
From common passions.
_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
(_Exeunt._)
II.
ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
carelessly upon a chair.
_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?
_Jacinta
(pertly_). Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
_Lal_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac. (aside_). 'Tis time.
(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look. Lalage continues to read._)
_Lal_. "It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
(_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so--her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story--
But like--oh, very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
_Jac_.
(_pettishly_). Madam, what is it?
_Lal_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists?
_Jac_. Pshaw!
(_Exit_)
_Lal_. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
There, ma'am, 's the book.
(_aside_.) Indeed she is very troublesome.
_Lal_.
(_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta?
Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trustworthy and respectful.
(_resumes her reading_.)
_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
_Lal_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
_Lal_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
_Jac_. Oh, perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
(_Exit_)
(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it_.)
_Lal_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(_taking up the mirror_)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved_)
_Monk_. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
_Lal.
(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below;
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!
_Lal_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
And think of me!--think of my trusting love
And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
_Monk_. I did.
_Lal_. 'Tis well.
There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
A solemn vow!
_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!
_Lal_. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
_I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
And the deed's register should tally, father!
(_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in heaven!
_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
_Lal_. 'Tis sworn!
III.
An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
_Baldazzar_. Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
And live, for now thou diest!
_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar!
_Surely_ I live.
_Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus!
_Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
_Bal_. To the field then--to the field--
To the senate or the field.
_Pol_. Alas! alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is--what voice was that?
_Bal_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
_Pol_. Then I but dreamed.
_Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
_Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then_?
_Bal_ I heard it not.
_Pol_. Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
We have been boys together--school-fellows--
And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
_Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.
_Pol_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
_Bal_. Indeed I hear not.
_Pol_. Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard--yet it were well
Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!
_Bal_. I myself hear it now.
Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.
_Pol_. Be still!--it comes again!
_Voice_
(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England--never so plaintively--
Hist! hist! it comes again!
_Voice
(more loudly_). "Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. 'Tis hushed and all is still!
_Pol_. All _is not_ still.
_Bal_. Let us go down.
_Pol_. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
_Bal_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
_Voice_
(_distinctly_). "Who have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
_Pol_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
(_going_).
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue."
_Bal_. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.
_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
the voice
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
(_Approaching the window_)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.
_Bal_. Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
_Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night.
IV.
The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
_Politian_. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
(_arising_.)
Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
Thy beauty and thy woes.
_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?
_Pol_. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it--
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust--so we descend together?
Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And then perchance
_Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And still _together_--_together_.
_Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester!
Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.
_Pol_. O Lalage!
(_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
And lovest thou _me_?
_Lal_. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(_walks across and returns_.)
I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
_Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.
_Lal_. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?
_Pol_. Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?
_Lal_. A deed is to be done--
Castiglione lives!
_Pol_. And he shall die!
(_Exit_.)
_Lal_.
(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
V.
The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
_Politian_. This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
_Enter Baldazzar_.
_Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.
_Pol_. _What_ didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
_Pol_. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you:
The Count Castiglione will not fight.
Having no cause for quarrel.
_Pol_. Now this is true--
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!--
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
(_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?--at the Vatican.
_Pol_. At the Vatican.
(_Exit Bal_.)
_Enter Castiglione_.
_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not, that I am here?
_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl!
(_Draws._)
_Pol_.
(_drawing_.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage_.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.
_Pol_. Now, by my halidom,
I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the Earl._)
Alas! my lord,
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
_Pol.
(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
_Cas_. And Lalage--
_Pol_. _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(_baring his bosom_.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
_Pol_. Now's Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
thee,
Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
(_Exit_.)
_Cas_. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
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The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan Sections: 50 What's this? Table of Contents |
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