Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness
Unto the duke. Arouse thee, and remember.

Pol. Remember! I do. Lead on.

member.

I do re

[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 veilèd face, and hear

Once more that silent tongue."

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.

Lal. 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.

Pol. Weep not; O, sob not thus: thy bitter

tears

Will madden me. O, 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 dishonoured Lalage abide ?

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory

My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honours 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 unhonoured and forgotten
Into the dust, so we descend together?
Descend together; and then
- and then, per-

chance

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 past

A spectral figure, solemn and slow and noiseless

Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noise[Walks across and returns.

less.

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 nightwind

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 untrammeled flow,—which air to breathe
Is happiness now, and will be freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?

Pol.

O, wilt thou-wilt thou

Fly to that paradise, my Lalage,—wilt thou

Fly thither with me? There care shall be forgotten,