University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague.
Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the Count.
Eric.
So, better times are come at last; to these
Old walls new masters and high wassail—both
A long desideratum.

Hen.
Yes, for masters,
It might be unto those who long for novelty,
Though made by a new grave: but, as for wassail,
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintained
His feudal hospitality as high
As e'er another Prince of the empire.

Eric.
Why
For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt
Fared passing well; but as for merriment
And sport, without which salt and sauces season
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were
Even of the narrowest.

Hen.
The old count loved not
The roar of revel; are you sure that this does?

Eric.
As yet he hath been courteous as he 's bounteous,
And we all love him.

Hen.
His reign is as yet
Hardly a year o'erpast its honeymoon,
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal:
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway
And moods of mind.

Eric.
Pray Heaven he keep the present!
Then his brave son, Count Ulric—there 's a knight!
Pity the wars are o'er!

Hen.
Why so?

Eric.
Look on him!
And answer that yourself.

Hen.
He 's very youthful,
And strong and beautiful as a young tiger.

Eric.
That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness.

Hen.
But
Perhaps a true one.

Eric.
Pity, as I said,
The wars are over: in the hall, who like
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride,
Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field,
Who like him with his spear in hand, when gnashing
His tusks, and ripping up, from right to left,
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket?
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears
A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier?

Hen.
No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war
Be long in coming, he is of that kind
Will make it for himself, if he hath not
Already done as much.

Eric.
What do you mean?

Hen.
You can't deny his train of followers
(But few our native fellow-vassals born
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves
As—

[Pauses.
Eric.
What?

Hen.
The war (you love so much) leaves living.
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children.

Eric.
Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows,
Such as old Tilly loved.

Hen.
And who loved Tilly?
Ask that at Magdebourg—or, for that matter,
Wallenstein either;—they are gone to—

Eric.
Rest!
But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce.

Hen.
I wish they had left us something of their rest:
The country (nominally now at peace)
Is over-run with—God knows who: they fly
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more,
Than the most open warfare.

Eric.
But Count Ulric—
What has all this to do with him?

Hen.
With him!
He—might prevent it. As you say he 's fond
Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders?

Eric.
You'd better ask himself.

Hen.
I would as soon
Ask the lion why he laps not milk.

Eric.
And here he comes!

Hen.
The devil! you'll hold your tongue?

Eric.
Why do you turn so pale?

Hen.
'Tis nothing—but
Be silent.

Eric.
I will, upon what you have said.

Hen.
Enter Ulric and Rodolph.

Ulr.
Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is
All ready for the chase?

Eric.
The dogs are ordered
Down to the forest, and the vassals out
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising.
Shall I call forth your Excellency's suite?
What courser will you please to mount?

Ulr.
The dun,
Walstein.

Eric.
I fear he scarcely has recovered
The toils of Monday: 'twas a noble chase:
You speared four with your own hand.

Ulr.
True, good Eric;
I had forgotten—let it be the grey, then,
Old Ziska: he has not been out this fortnight.

Eric.
He shall be straight caparisoned. How many
Of your immediate retainers shall
Escort you?

Ulr.
[Exit Eric.

Rod.
My Lord!

Ulr.
[Rodolph points to Henrick.

Hen.
For your commands, my Lord.

Ulr.
[Exit Henrick.

Rod.
Best wait for further and more sure advices.

Ulr.
I mean it—and indeed it could not well
Have fallen out at a time more opposite
To all my plans.

Rod.
It will be difficult
To excuse your absence to the Count your father.

Ulr.
Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain
In high Silesia will permit and cover
My journey. In the mean time, when we are
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men
Whom Wolffe leads—keep the forests on your route:
You know it well?

Rod.
As well as on that night
When we—

Ulr.
We will not speak of that until
We can repeat the same with like success:
And when you have joined, give Rosenberg this letter.
[Gives a letter.
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of
My coming, though I could but spare them ill
At this time, as my father loves to keep
Full numbers of retainers round the castle,
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries,
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense.

Rod.
I thought you loved the lady Ida?

Ulr.
Why,
I do so—but it follows not from that
I would bind in my youth and glorious years,
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone,
Although 'twere that of Venus:—but I love her,
As woman should be loved—fairly and solely.

Rod.
And constantly?

Ulr.
I think so; for I love
Nought else.—But I have not the time to pause
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things
We have to do ere long. Speed! speed! good Rodolph!

Rod.
On my return, however, I shall find
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf?

Ulr.
Perhaps: my father wishes it, and, sooth,
'Tis no bad policy: this union with
The last bud of the rival branch at once
Unites the future and destroys the past.

Rod.
Adieu.

Ulr.
Yet hold—we had better keep together
Until the chase begins; then draw thou off,
And do as I have said.

Rod.
I will. But to
Return—'twas a most kind act in the count
Your father to send up to Konigsberg
For this fair orphan of the Baron, and
To hail her as his daughter.

Ulr.
Wondrous kind!
Especially as little kindness till
Then grew between them.

Rod.
The late Baron died
Of a fever, did he not?

Ulr.
How should I know?

Rod.
I have heard it whispered there was something strange
About his death—and even the place of it
Is scarcely known.

Ulr.
Some obscure village on
The Saxon or Silesian frontier.

Rod.
He
Has left no testament—no farewell words?

Ulr.
I am neither confessor nor notary,
So cannot say.

Rod.
Ah! here 's the lady Ida.

Enter Ida Stralenheim.
Ulr.
You are early, my sweet cousin!

Ida.
Not too early,
Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you.
Why do you call me “Cousin?”

Ulr.
(smiling).
Are we not so?

Ida.
Yes, but I do not like the name; methinks
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon
Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood.

Ulr.
(starting).
Blood!

Ida.
Why does yours start from your cheeks?

Ulr.
Aye! doth it?

Ida.
It doth—but no! it rushes like a torrent
Even to your brow again.

Ulr.
(recovering himself).
And if it fled,
It only was because your presence sent it
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet Cousin!

Ida.
“Cousin” again.

Ulr.
Nay, then, I'll call you sister.

Ida.
I like that name still worse.—Would we had ne'er
Been aught of kindred!

Ulr.
(gloomily).
Would we never had!

Ida.
Oh, heavens! and can you wish that?

Ulr.
Dearest Ida!
Did I not echo your own wish?

Ida.
Yes, Ulric,
But then I wished it not with such a glance,
And scarce knew what I said; but let me be
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that
I still to you am something.

Ulr.
You shall be
All—all—

Ida.
And you to me are so already;
But I can wait.

Ulr.
Dear Ida!

Ida.
Call me Ida,
Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's—
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father—

[She pauses.
Ulr.
You have mine—you have me.

Ida.
Dear Ulric, how I wish
My father could but view my happiness,
Which wants but this!

Ulr.
Indeed!

Ida.
You would have loved him,
He you; for the brave ever love each other:
His manner was a little cold, his spirit
Proud (as is birth's prerogative); but under
This grave exterior—Would you had known each other!
Had such as you been near him on his journey,
He had not died without a friend to soothe
His last and lonely moments.

Ulr.
Who says that?

Ida.
What?

Ulr.
That he died alone.

Ida.
The general rumour,
And disappearance of his servants, who
Have ne'er returned: that fever was most deadly
Which swept them all away.

Ulr.
If they were near him,
He could not die neglected or alone.

Ida.
Alas! what is a menial to a death-bed,
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what
It loves?—They say he died of a fever.

Ulr.
Say!
It was so.

Ida.
I sometimes dream otherwise.

Ulr.
All dreams are false.

Ida.
And yet I see him as
I see you.

Ulr.
Where?

Ida.
In sleep—I see him lie
Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife
Beside him.

Ulr.
But you do not see his face?

Ida
(looking at him).
No! Oh, my God! do you?

Ulr.
Why do you ask?

Ida.
Because you look as if you saw a murderer!

Ulr.
(agitatedly).
Ida, this is mere childishness; your weakness
Infects me, to my shame: but as all feelings
Of yours are common to me, it affects me.
Prithee, sweet child, change—

Ida.
Child, indeed! I have
Full fifteen summers!

[A bugle sounds.
Rod.
Hark, my Lord, the bugle!

Ida
(peevishly to Rodolph).
Why need you tell him that? Can he not hear it
Without your echo?

Rod.
Pardon me, fair Baroness!

Ida.
I will not pardon you, unless you earn it
By aiding me in my dissuasion of
Count Ulric from the chase to-day.

Rod.
You will not,
Lady, need aid of mine.

Ulr.
I must not now
Forgo it.

Ida.
But you shall!

Ulr.
Shall!

Ida.
Yes, or be
No true knight.—Come, dear Ulric! yield to me
In this, for this one day: the day looks heavy,
And you are turned so pale and ill.

Ulr.
You jest.

Ida.
Indeed I do not:—ask of Rodolph.

Rod.
Truly,
My Lord, within this quarter of an hour
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change
In years.

Ulr.
'Tis nothing; but if 'twere, the air
Would soon restore me. I'm the true cameleon,
And live but on the atmosphere; your feasts
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not
My spirit—I'm a forester and breather
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all
The eagle loves.

Ida.
Except his prey, I hope.

Ulr.
Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home.

Ida.
And will you not stay, then? You shall not go!
Come! I will sing to you.

Ulr.
Ida, you scarcely
Will make a soldier's wife.

Ida.
I do not wish
To be so; for I trust these wars are over,
And you will live in peace on your domains.

Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf.
Ulr.
My father, I salute you, and it grieves me
With such brief greeting.—You have heard our bugle;
The vassals wait.

Sieg.
So let them.—You forget
To-morrow is the appointed festival
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow
The chase with such an ardour as will scarce
Permit you to return to-day, or if
Returned, too much fatigued to join to-morrow
The nobles in our marshalled ranks.

Ulr.
You, Count,
Will well supply the place of both—I am not
A lover of these pageantries.

Sieg.
No, Ulric;
It were not well that you alone of all
Our young nobility—

Ida.
And far the noblest
In aspect and demeanour.

Sieg.
(to Ida).
True, dear child,
Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel.—
But, Ulric, recollect too our position,
So lately reinstated in our honours.
Believe me, 'twould be marked in any house,
But most in ours, that one should be found wanting
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven
Which gave us back our own, in the same moment
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country;
And next, that we are here to share its blessings.

Ulr.
(aside).
Devout, too! Well, sir, I obey at once.
(Then aloud to a servant.)
Ludwig, dismiss the train without!

[Exit Ludwig.
Ida.
And so
You yield, at once, to him what I for hours
Might supplicate in vain.

Sieg.
(smiling).
You are not jealous
Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel! who
Would sanction disobedience against all
Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt rule him
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer.

Ida.
But I should like to govern now.

Sieg.
You shall,
Your harp, which by the way awaits you with
The Countess in her chamber. She complains
That you are a sad truant to your music:
She attends you.

Ida.
Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen!
Ulric, you'll come and hear me?

Ulr.
By and by.

Ida.
Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles;
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes:
I'll play you King Gustavus' march.

Ulr.
And why not
Old Tilly's?

Ida.
Not that monster's! I should think
My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music,
Could aught of his sound on it:—but come quickly;
Your mother will be eager to receive you.

[Exit Ida.
Sieg.
Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone.

Ulr.
(Aside to Rodolph.)

Rod.
Count Siegendorf, command you aught? I am bound
Upon a journey past the frontier.

Sieg.
(starts).
Ah!—
Where? on what frontier?

Rod.
The Silesian, on
My way— (Aside to Ulric.)
—Where shall I say?

Ulr.
(aside to Rodolph).
(Aside to himself).

Rod.
Count, to Hamburgh.

Sieg.
(agitated).
Hamburgh! No, I have nought to do there, nor
Am aught connected with that city. Then
God speed you!

Rod.
Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf!

[Exit Rodolph.
Sieg.
Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is
One of those strange companions whom I fain
Would reason with you on.

Ulr.
My Lord, he is
Noble by birth, of one of the first houses
In Saxony.

Sieg.
I talk not of his birth,
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him.

Ulr.
So they will do of most men. Even the monarch
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made
Great and ungrateful.

Sieg.
If I must be plain,
The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph:
They say he is leagued with the “black bands” who still
Ravage the frontier.

Ulr.
And will you believe
The world?

Sieg.
In this case—yes.

Ulr.
In any case,
I thought you knew it better than to take
An accusation for a sentence.

Sieg.
Son!
I understand you: you refer to—but
My destiny has so involved about me
Her spider web, that I can only flutter
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed,
Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me:
Twenty long years of misery and famine
Quenched them not—twenty thousand more, perchance,
Hereafter (or even here in moments which
Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial),
May not obliterate or expiate
The madness and dishonour of an instant.
Ulric, be warned by a father!—I was not
By mine, and you behold me!

Ulr.
I behold
The prosperous and belovéd Siegendorf,
Lord of a Prince's appanage, and honoured
By those he rules and those he ranks with.

Sieg.
Ah!
Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear
For thee? Belovéd, when thou lovest me not!
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me—
But if my son's is cold!—

Ulr.
Who dare say that?

Sieg.
None else but I, who see it—feel it—keener
Than would your adversary, who dared say so,
Your sabre in his heart! But mine survives
The wound.

Ulr.
You err. My nature is not given
To outward fondling: how should it be so,
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents?

Sieg.
And did not I too pass those twelve torn years
In a like absence? But 'tis vain to urge you—
Nature was never called back by remonstrance.
Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider
That these young violent nobles of high name,
But dark deeds (aye, the darkest, if all Rumour
Reports be true), with whom thou consortest,
Will lead thee—

Ulr.
(impatiently).
I'll be led by no man.

Sieg.
Nor
Be leader of such, I would hope: at once
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida—more
As thou appear'st to love her.

Ulr.
I have said
I will obey your orders, were they to
Unite with Hecate—can a son say more?

Sieg.
He says too much in saying this. It is not
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood,
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly,
Or act so carelessly, in that which is
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness,
(For Glory's pillow is but restless, if
Love lay not down his cheek there): some strong bias,
Some master fiend is in thy service, to
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave,
And makes his every thought subservient; else
Thou'dst say at once—“I love young Ida, and
Will wed her;” or, “I love her not, and all
The powers on earth shall never make me.”—So
Would I have answered.

Ulr.
Sir, you wed for love.

Sieg.
I did, and it has been my only refuge
In many miseries.

Ulr.
Which miseries
Had never been but for this love-match.

Sieg.
Still
Against your age and nature! Who at twenty
E'er answered thus till now?

Ulr.
Did you not warn me
Against your own example?

Sieg.
Boyish sophist!
In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida?

Ulr.
What matters it, if I am ready to
Obey you in espousing her?

Sieg.
As far
As you feel, nothing—but all life for her.
She's young—all-beautiful—adores you—is
Endowed with qualities to give happiness,
Such as rounds common life into a dream
Of something which your poets cannot paint,
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue),
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom;
And giving so much happiness, deserves
A little in return. I would not have her
Break her heart with a man who has none to break!
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale,
According to the Orient tale. She is—

Ulr.
The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe:
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless; though, to say truth,
Just now I am not violently transported
In favour of such unions.

Sieg.
But she loves you.

Ulr.
And I love her, and therefore would think twice.

Sieg.
Alas! Love never did so.

Ulr.
Then 'tis time
He should begin, and take the bandage from
His eyes, and look before he leaps; till now
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark.

Sieg.
But you consent?

Ulr.
I did, and do.

Sieg.
Then fix the day.

Ulr.
'Tis usual,
And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady.

Sieg.
I will engage for her.

Ulr.
So will not I
For any woman: and as what I fix,
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives
Her answer, I'll give mine.

Sieg.
But 'tis your office
To woo.

Ulr.
Count, 'tis a marriage of your making,
So be it of your wooing; but to please you,
I will now pay my duty to my mother,
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is.—
What would you have? You have forbid my stirring
For manly sports beyond the castle walls,
And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer,
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles,
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles,
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into
The eyes of feminine, as though they were
The stars receding early to our wish
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle—
What can a son or man do more?

[Exit Ulric.
Sieg.
(solus).
Too much!—
Too much of duty, and too little love!
He pays me in the coin he owes me not:
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side
Till now; but love he owes me, for my thoughts
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes longed without tears
To see my child again,—and now I have found him!
But how! obedient, but with coldness; duteous
In my sight, but with carelessness; mysterious—
Abstracted—distant—much given to long absence,
And where—none know—in league with the most riotous
Of our young nobles; though, to do him justice,
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures;
Yet there's some tie between them which I can not
Unravel. They look up to him—consult him—
Throng round him as a leader: but with me
He hath no confidence! Ah! can I hope it
After—what! doth my father's curse descend
Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near
To shed more blood? or—Oh! if it should be!
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls
To wither him and his—who, though they slew not,
Unlatched the door of Death for thee? 'Twas not
Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe,
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening!
And only took—Accurséd gold! thou liest
Like poison in my hands; I dare not use thee,
Nor part from thee; thou camest in such a guise,
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee,
Thou villanous gold! and thy dead master's doom,
Though he died not by me or mine, as much
As if he were my brother! I have ta'en
His orphan Ida—cherished her as one
Who will be mine.

Enter an Attendant.
Atten.
The abbot, if it please
Your Excellency, whom you sent for, waits
Upon you.

[Exit Attendant.
Enter the Prior Albert.
Prior.
Peace be with these walls, and all
Within them!

Sieg.
Welcome, welcome, holy father!
And may thy prayer be heard!—all men have need
Of such, and I—

Prior.
Have the first claim to all
The prayers of our community. Our convent,
Erected by your ancestors, is still
Protected by their children.

Sieg.
Yes, good father;
Continue daily orisons for us
In these dim days of heresies and blood,
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is
Gone home.

Prior.
To the endless home of unbelievers,
Where there is everlasting wail and woe,
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire
Eternal and the worm which dieth not!

Sieg.
True, father: and to avert those pangs from one,
Who, though of our most faultless holy church,
Yet died without its last and dearest offices,
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains,
I have to offer humbly this donation
In masses for his spirit.

[Siegendorf offers the gold which he had taken from Stralenheim.
Prior.
Count, if I
Receive it, 'tis because I know too well
Refusal would offend you. Be assured
The largess shall be only dealt in alms,
And every mass no less sung for the dead.
Our House needs no donations, thanks to yours,
Which has of old endowed it; but from you
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey.
For whom shall mass be said?

Sieg.
(faltering).
For—for—the dead.

Prior.
His name?

Sieg.
'Tis from a soul, and not a name,
I would avert perdition.

Prior.
I meant not
To pry into your secret. We will pray
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest.

Sieg.
Secret! I have none: but, father, he who's gone
Might have one; or, in short, he did bequeath—
No, not bequeath—but I bestow this sum
For pious purposes.

Prior.
A proper deed
In the behalf of our departed friends.

Sieg.
But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe,
The deadliest and the stanchest.

Prior.
Better still!
To employ our means to obtain Heaven for the souls
Of our dead enemies is worthy those
Who can forgive them living.

Sieg.
But I did not
Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last,
As he did me. I do not love him now,
But—

Prior.
Best of all! for this is pure religion!
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell—
An evangelical compassion—with
Your own gold too!

Sieg.
Father, 'tis not my gold.

Prior.
Whose, then? You said it was no legacy.

Sieg.
No matter whose—of this be sure, that he
Who owned it never more will need it, save
In that which it may purchase from your altars:
'Tis yours, or theirs.

Prior.
Is there no blood upon it?

Sieg.
No; but there 's worse than blood—eternal shame!

Prior.
Did he who owned it die in his bed?

Sieg.
Alas!
He did.

Prior.
Son! you relapse into revenge,
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death.

Sieg.
His death was fathomlessly deep in blood.

Prior.
You said he died in his bed, not battle.

Sieg.
He
Died, I scarce know—but—he was stabbed i' the dark,
And now you have it—perished on his pillow
By a cut-throat!—Aye!—you may look upon me!
I am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that point,
As I can one day God's.

Prior.
Nor did he die
By means, or men, or instrument of yours?

Sieg.
No! by the God who sees and strikes!

Prior.
Nor know you
Who slew him?

Sieg.
I could only guess at one,
And he to me a stranger, unconnected,
As unemployed. Except by one day's knowledge,
I never saw the man who was suspected.

Prior.
Then you are free from guilt.

Sieg.
(eagerly).
Oh! am I?—say!

Prior.
You have said so, and know best.

Sieg.
Father! I have spoken
The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole;
Yet say I am not guilty! for the blood
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it,
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood,
I did not!—nay, once spared it, when I might
And could—aye, perhaps, should (if our self-safety
Be e'er excusable in such defences
Against the attacks of over-potent foes):
But pray for him, for me, and all my house;
For, as I said, though I be innocent,
I know not why, a like remorse is on me,
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me,
Father! I have prayed myself in vain.

Prior.
I will.
Be comforted! You are innocent, and should
Be calm as innocence.

Sieg.
But calmness is not
Always the attribute of innocence.
I feel it is not.

Prior.
But it will be so,
When the mind gathers up its truth within it.
Remember the great festival to-morrow,
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles,
As well as your brave son; and smooth your aspect,
Nor in the general orison of thanks
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise,
A cloud, upon your thoughts. This were to be
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty.

[Exeunt.