 | Demetrius |  |
SCENE XIX.
Barsenealone.
What would'st thou more, my heart? Subject thyself
To be refus'd, contemn'd! thy hopes are fruitless
To overcome Alcestes' constancy.
Yet who can tell th' event? Long time and suffering
Perhaps may conquer—by repeated drops
The obdurate rock is worn; and stubborn oaks
Yield to the sounding axe's frequent blows.
But should I be deceiv'd? Alas! I fear
The youth I dote on, constant to his purpose,
Will more relentless prove than stones or trees.
To be refus'd, contemn'd! thy hopes are fruitless
To overcome Alcestes' constancy.
Yet who can tell th' event? Long time and suffering
Perhaps may conquer—by repeated drops
346
Yield to the sounding axe's frequent blows.
But should I be deceiv'd? Alas! I fear
The youth I dote on, constant to his purpose,
Will more relentless prove than stones or trees.
My soul her freedom seeks to gain,
Would fain resolve to break her chain,
But this the flatterer Hope denies.
Of all the passions in our breast,
This first is born, an early guest,
And is the last that dies.
Would fain resolve to break her chain,
But this the flatterer Hope denies.
Of all the passions in our breast,
This first is born, an early guest,
And is the last that dies.
Yet, ah! to heal distemper'd minds
How little Hope conspires,
But only constant fuel finds
For credulous desires.
How little Hope conspires,
But only constant fuel finds
For credulous desires.
[Exit.
| Demetrius | |