Part 18 (1/2)

_Gycia._ Nay; see, I fill My gla.s.s to drink with thee.

_Asan._ Well, well, I drink, But not to the Republic.

_Gycia._ Ah! my lord, There is a gulf still yawns 'twixt thee and me Which not the rapture of recovered love Can ever wholly bridge. To my dead father I drink, and the Republic!

_Lys._ Which is dead.

_Bard._ Nay, sir, but living, and shall live when thou Liest rotting with thy schemes.

_Enter_ MEGACLES.

_Meg._ My Lord Asander, A messenger from Bosphorus, just landed, Has bid me give thee this.

[_Gives_ ASANDER _letter._

_Asan._ (_reading_) ”My Lord, the King Is dead, asking for thee.” Oh, wretched day!

Had I but gone to him, and left this place Of sorrow ere he died!

_Gycia._ My love, my dear!

Thou wilt go hence too late. I would indeed The law had let thee go. Sorrow like this Draws parted lives in one, and knits anew The rents which time has made.

_Lys._ The King is dead!

Ay, then long live the King of Bosphorus!

And more ere long!

_Bard._ Think you that he will live To wear his crown?

_Zetho._ Brethren, the hour is late, And draws to midnight, and 'tis time that all Should rest for whom rest is. (_To_ BARDANES _aside_) We must consider What change of policy this weighty change Which makes Asander King may work in us.

_Bard._ (_aside_). Nay, nay, no change! He is a murderer still, And shall be punished were he thrice a king.

_Asan._ Good night to all. And thou, good Megacles, Thou wert my father's servant, take thy rest.

Go hence with these.

_Meg._ I have no heart to marshal These dignitaries forth. My King is dead; I am growing old and spent.

_Zetho._ Daughter, remember Thy duty to the State.

_Gycia._ I will, good Zetho.

I am my father's daughter. Gentle Sirs And Ladies all, good night.

[_Exeunt omnes except_ ASANDER _and_ GYCIA; LYSIMACHUS _and_ Courtiers _by one door, then the_ Chersonites _by another opposite._

_Asan._ Dearest of women, How well this fair head will become a crown!

I know not how it is, but now this blow Has fallen, it does not move me as I thought.

I am as those who come in tottering age Even to life's verge, whom loss of friend or child Touches not deeply, since the dead they love Precede them but a stage upon the road Which they shall tread to-morrow. Yet am I Young, and thou too, my Gycia; we should walk The path of life together many years, But that some strange foreboding troubles me.

For oh, my dear! now that the sun of love Beams on our days again, my worthless life Grows precious, and I tremble like a coward At dangers I despised. Tell me, my Gycia, Though I am true in love, wouldst thou forgive me If I were false or seemed false to thy State?

Hast thou no word for me? May I not tell thee My secret, which so soon all men shall know, And ask thy pardon for it?