Part 5 (1/2)

Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her; I glory being her slave.

_Irene._ I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.

I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?

_Asan._ No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken The glory of the night. But thou dost love her-- Is it not so, fair lady?

_Ire._ Ay, my lord, For we have lived together all our lives; I could not choose but love.

_Asan._ Well said indeed.

Tell me, and have I seen thy face before?

A something in it haunts me.

_Ire._ Ay, my lord.

Am I forgot so soon?

_Asan._ Indeed! Thy name?

Where have I seen thee?

_Ire._ Where? Dost thou, then, ask?

_Asan._ Ay; in good truth, my treacherous memory Betrays me here.

_Ire._ Thou mayest well forget My name, if thou hast quite forgot its owner.

[_Weeps._

I am called Irene.

_Asan._ Strange! the very name My lady did relate to me as hers Who bears a hopeless love. Weep not, good lady; Take comfort. Heaven is kind.

_Ire._ Nay, my good lord, What comfort? He I love loves not again, Or not me, but another.

_Asan._ Ah, poor lady!

I pity you indeed, now I have known True recompense of love.

_Ire._ Dost thou say pity?

And pity as they tell's akin to love.

What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander, Who love one so exalted in estate That all return of honourable love Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise My eyes to Caesar's self? What comfort have I, If lately I have heard this man I love Communing with his soul, when none seemed near, Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet Of another, not myself; and well I know Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance Of that o'ermastering pa.s.sion--naught but death Or hopeless depths of crime?

_Asan._ Lady, I pity Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.

_Ire._ Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself, And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!

Thou art my love, Asander--thou, none other, There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.

That I a woman should lay bare my soul; Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart To one who loves me not, and doth despise The service I would tender!

_Asan._ Cease, I pray you; These are distempered words.

_Ire._ Nay, they are true.

And come from the inner heart. Leave these strange sh.o.r.es And her you love. I know her from a child.