Part 10 (1/2)

Why, when I woo your hand, is it deny'd me?

Your very eyes, why are they taught to shun me?-- Nay, my good lord, I have a t.i.tle here, [_takes his hand._ And I will have it. Am I not your wife?

Have I not just authority to know That heart which I have purchas'd with my own?

Tell me the secret; I conjure you, tell me.

Speak then, I charge you speak, or I expire, And load you with my death. My lord, my lord!

_Alon._ Ha, ha, ha!

[_he breaks from her, and she sinks upon the floor._

_Leon._ Are these the joys which fondly I conceiv'd?

And is it thus a wedded life begins?

What did I part with, when I gave my heart?

I knew not that all happiness went with it.

Why did I leave my tender father's wing, And venture into love? The maid that loves, Goes out to sea upon a shatter'd plank, And puts her trust in miracles for safety.

Where shall I sigh?--where pour out my complaint?

He that should hear, should succour, should redress, He is the source of all.

_Alon._ Go to thy chamber; I soon will follow; that which now disturbs thee Shall be clear'd up, and thou shalt not condemn me. [_exit Leonora._ Oh, how like innocence she looks!--What, stab her!

And rush into her blood?

How then? why thus--no more; it is determin'd.

_Re-enter Zanga._

_Zan._ I fear, his heart has fail'd him. She must die.

Can I not rouse the snake that's in his bosom, To sting out human nature, and effect it? [_aside._

_Alon._ This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, through which it rolls, must all have end.

What then is man? the smallest part of nothing.

Day buries day; month, month; and year, the year.

Our life is but a chain of many deaths; Can then death's self be fear'd? our life much rather.

Life is the desert, life the solitude.

Death joins us to the great majority: 'Tis to be borne to Platos and to Caesars; 'Tis to be great for ever; 'Tis pleasure, 'tis ambition, then to die.

_Zan._ I think, my lord, you talk'd of death.

_Alon._ I did.

_Zan._ I give you joy, then Leonora's dead.

_Alon._ No, Zanga; to shed a woman's blood Would stain my sword, and make my wars inglorious; He who, superior to the checks of nature, Dares make his life the victim of his reason, Does in some sort that reason deify, And take a flight at heaven.

_Zan._ Alas, my lord, 'Tis not your reason, but her beauty, finds Those arguments, and throws you on your sword.

You cannot close an eye that is so bright, You cannot strike a breast that is so soft, That has ten thousand ecstasies in store-- For Carlos?--No, my lord, I mean for you.

_Alon._ Oh, through my heart and marrow! pr'ythee, spare me, Nor more upbraid the weakness of thy lord: I own, I try'd, I quarrell'd with my heart, And push'd it on, and bid it give her death; But, oh, her eyes struck first and murder'd me.

_Zan._ I know not what to answer to my lord.