Part 8 (1/2)

What, Leonora! the divine, by whom We guess'd at angels! Oh! I'm all confusion.

_Zan._ You now are too much ruffled to think clearly.

Since bliss and horror, life and death, hang on it, Go to your chamber, there maturely weigh Each circ.u.mstance; consider, above all, That it is jealousy's peculiar nature To swell small things to great; nay, out of nought To conjure much, and then to lose its reason Amid the hideous phantoms it has form'd.

_Alon._ Had I ten thousand lives, I'd give them all To be deceiv'd.

And yet she seem'd so pure, that I thought heav'n Borrow'd her form for virtue's self to wear, To gain her lovers with the sons of men.

O, Leonora! Leonora! [_exit._

_Re-enter Isabella._

_Zan._ Thus far it works auspiciously. My patient Thrives, underneath my hand, in misery.

He's gone to think; that is, to be distracted.

_Isa._ I overheard your conference, and saw you, To my amazement, tear the letter.

_Zan._ There, There, Isabella, I out-did myself.

For, tearing it, I not secure it only In its first force, but superadd a new.

For who can now the character examine To cause a doubt, much less detect the fraud?

And after tearing it, as loth to show The foul contents, if I should swear it now A forgery, my lord would disbelieve me, Nay, more, would disbelieve the more I swore.

But is the picture happily dispos'd of?

_Isa._ It is.

_Zan._ That's well--Ah! what is well? O pang to think!

O dire necessity! is this my province?

Whither, my soul! ah! whither art thou sunk?

Does this become a soldier? this become Whom armies follow'd, and a people lov'd?

My martial glory withers at the thought.

But great my end; and since there are no other, These means are just, they s.h.i.+ne with borrow'd light, Ill.u.s.trious from the purpose they pursue.

And greater sure my merit, who, to gain A point sublime, can such a task sustain; To wade through ways obscene, my honour bend, And shock my nature, to attain my end.

Late time shall wonder; that my joys will raise: For wonder is involuntary praise. [_exeunt._

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

_Enter Don Alonzo and Zanga._

_Alon._ Oh, what a pain to think! when ev'ry thought, Perplexing thought, in intricacies runs, And reason knits th' inextricable toil, In which herself is taken!

No more I'll bear this battle of the mind, This inward anarchy; but find my wife And, to her trembling heart presenting death, Force all the secret from her.

_Zan._ O, forbear!