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SCENE XVII.
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SCENE XVII.

Lycidas
alone.
Presumptuous man!
[draws.
This sword shall through thy breast—What have I said?
Whom would my rage chastise? 'Tis I am guilty:
I am the offender—Let me rather plunge
My weapon here—Die, wretched Lycidas!
Ha! wherefore dost thou tremble, coward hand,
What is't withholds thee?—This indeed is misery:
I hate my life, and yet my death affrights me.
My heart is torn in pieces! Rage, revenge,
Repentance, friendship, tenderness, compassion,
Love, shame, all, all distract me: never breast
Was rent before with such contending passions!
What can this mean? I tremble 'midst my threats!
I burn and freeze; I weep even while I rave;
I wish for death, yet know not how to die.

134

Methinks the shades of night arise,
And blot the lustre of the skies!
Around what horrid forms appear!
I feel a thousand furies here!
Meægras' sanguine torch inspires
My bosom with terrific fires!
Alecto all her venom drains,
And sheds the poison through my veins.

[Exit.