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SCENE II.
A Room in Orontio's House.Enter Rosalie.
Ros.
Why so much dread what I so much desire?
His coming I do fear; and came he not,
I'd rail at fear that it had banished him.
My weakness will be yet too strong for me.
Pride and my maiden modesty, where are ye?
Gone with the vaunted puissance of my will,—
Cold vapors drunk by the spring sun of love;
Leaving me pervious as the lake's white breast,
Defenceless bared to thirsty summer's beams,
Which quiver flaming through its mystic depths.
I am as helpless as an unweaned child.
Why not as innocent?—Come, helpful Truth,
Be thou my strength! Gird me against myself,
Against Self-Love's perfidious subtleties.
Away, low Fear! vile serf to Falsity.
Proud Boldness, come! brother to high-bred Candor.
Away, too, virgin Coyness! for to Truth
Even youngest Modesty can trust herself,
And wilt no blossom of her roseate wreath.
Enter Tancred.
Tanc.
Fair Rosalie, a dearer privilege
Than this I count not in my favored life.
Ros.
Your highness' generosity misnames
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Won by your rank ere 'twas so by your kindness.
Tanc.
The breath that calls me kind proves you unkind.
Ros.
Then are my words blind traitors to their speaker.
Tanc.
Speaking of rank, which was not in your thought?
Ros.
Nor I, nor any one, nay, not yourself,
Can think of you disjointed from your rank.
Rank is a something grows into the blood:
You can not throw it off as 'twere a cloak.
Tanc.
If it do cumber me I can and will.
Ros.
You are so cumbered for the general good.
Unlike to low-born care, which drags down lower,
Your burthen lifts you on its loftiness,
Bearing along promoted multitudes.
Oh! 'tis divine, to sit upon a seat,
So sacred high, so founded in its might,
That, issuing thence, deeds are medicinal,
Blessing with ceaseless flood the fevered million,
And words outvoice Olympian thunderbolts.
Tanc.
You make me fall in love with royalty,
So grandly you conceive its righteous office.
The throne, till now a barren steep, looms up
A longed-for tufted island; while in thee,
Imagination kindling on itself,
Brandishes her torch and beckons thee to follow
To that proud seat thy words so deftly build,
There to enring thy temples with a crown,
The tribute of a heart grown rich through thee.
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Prince, your heart beats not for yourself alone:
Within it palpitates a Nation's life.
You are too large for private joy or grief,
Which melt before the sun of public needs.
Custom and fitness and paternal law,—
Whose triple strength holds duty in their thrall,—
O'errule a prince's destiny. For me
You are too high, and I for you too low.
Submit me to our lots—which are so blest,
That to complain of them were blasphemy—
And our first meeting let us look upon
As Fortune's spiteful trickery, wherewith
She takes delight to baffle mortal wills.
Tanc.
To mould one's destiny is nobler far
Than to inherit it; and to a will
Steadfast and crafty, Fortune proves a coward,
Who yields, then serves whom she had combated.
But better can I triumph over her,
Throwing away her sugared poisonous gifts,
And from the dangerous throne leaping down gladly
Into thy arms. For this there's precedent.
Often have kings descended from their seats;
Sometimes by willing resignation; oftener
By noiseless force of hostile circumstance,
Or harsh constraint of prosperous adversaries.
And shall not I—untasted yet the sweets
Of that great feast, whose thoughts have never swum
On royal hopes, committed as they are
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Of holy knowledge—shall not I descend,
When—like glad snowflakes that come swiftly dancing
From freezing heights, to melt them on the warm earth
And swell its fruitful currents—my descent
Shall be from frosty gloom to sunny joy.
But no: I will not down; thou shalt mount with me.
For nothing less than queen did Nature mould thee
Enter from behind, Orontio, with Guards.
In such pre-eminent proportions—
Oron.
Prince, I arrest you by the King's high order.
Tanc.
Arrest me! What new tyranny is this?
Oron.
You, Rosalie, withdraw into your chamber.
[Exit Rosalie.
Tanc.
Am I a common subject of the King,
That he thus outrages my will and person?
Oron.
Your highness knows me for the crown's sworn servant,
Who execute commands unquestioning.
Tanc.
I will obey. Lead on then to the prison.
Oron.
Your highness is no vulgar prisoner.
Your own apartment is your prison, till
His Majesty shall please thence to release you.
Tanc.
His Majesty may find it not so easy
To get me out as put me in. Lead on.
[Exit, guarded.
Orontio,
alone.
It is a fratricidal combat, bitter
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This is the roughest day that e'er I lived.—
Others must do the rest.—What a great light
Blazes above my house so suddenly!
Shall it be quenched? Man should not be so tempted.—
My daughter, my beautiful child! Thou art,
As never woman was, fit for a throne.—
God's will be done, not mine.
[Exit.
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