The Bride's Tragedy :: :: University of Virginia Library

And must I wake again? Oh come to me,
Thou that with dew-cold fingers softly closest
The wearied eye; thou sweet, thou gentle power,
Soother of woe, sole friend of the oppressed,
I long to lay me on thy peaceful breast.
But once I saw thee, beautiful as moonlight,
Upon a baby's lips, and thou didst kiss them,
Lingering and oft,
(As a wild bee doth kiss a rifled flower,
And clips its waist, and drops a little tear,
Remorsefully enamoured of his prey;)
Come so to me, sweet death, and I will wreath thee
An amorous chaplet for thy paly brows;
And, on an odoured bank of wan white buds,
In thy fair arms
I'll lie, and taste thy cool delicious breath,
And sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

Enter Lenora.

O here, good mother,
We'll talk together.

233

Len.
What; of Hesperus?
Methinks he has grown cold.

Flor.
Oh no; he is
More full of courtship than he ever was;
Don't think him cold, dear mother, or I may:
I'm sure he loves me still; I'll go to him,
'Tis nigh the appointed hour.

Len.
My child, it is a chill and gloomy evening,
So go not out. Thy Hesperus will come,
And thou wilt live on every word of his
Till thine eyes sparkle. What means this despondence?

Flor.
Dear mother, I will strive to be at ease,
If you desire; but melancholy thoughts
Are poor dissemblers. How I wish we owned
The wealth we've lost.

Len.
Why girl, I never heard
One such regret escape your lips before;
Has not your Hesperus enough?

Flor.
Too much;
If he were even poorer than ourselves,
I'd almost love him better. For, methinks,
It seemed a covetous spirit urged me on,
Craving to be received his bride. I hope
He did not think so; if he does, I'll tell him
I will not share his wealth, but dwell with you.
O that he'd come! How each dull moment drags
Its lazy wing along when he is absent.

234

When was he here?

Len.
Last night.

Flor.
Last night? Now pr'ythee
Don't jeer me so, I'm sure, not many days;
But all is night when he's not here to light me,
So let it be last night; although that night
Had days for hours, yet in Love's book and mine
'Tis but an empty cypher, a black round.
Oh, I've not lived, I've not been Floribel
Since the last mellow echo of his voice
Lent the air music; is't not a sweet voice?
What can you liken to it?

Len.
Pan's honeycomb
Of many vocal cells.

Flor.
How dull you are;
There's nought beneath the thunder-choir so grand;
The wood-birds and the waterfalls but mock him.
He said, dear mother, I should be his countess;
To-day he'd come to fetch me, but with day
I've laid my expectation in its grave.
Dost think he will deceive me? Silly girl,
Querulous ingrate, why do I torment me?
Sweet mother, comfort.

Len.
Be you sure he'll come
With his whole princely train of friends and kindred,
And he will lift thee to his gorgeous car,
And place thee at his side, a happy wife.

Flor.
Fie! you cajole me, like a sulky child,

235

With gilded cars; but oh! I wish 'twere here.
How gloomily the clouds look, and the wind
Rattles among the brown leaves dolefully;
He will be very chill, heap up the fire.
Hush! hark! What's that?

Len.
Only your dear father
Heavily breathing in his sleep; he'll wake
With his sad smile upon his patient face,
Looking so dear in sickness.

Flor.
But 'twill cure him,
When he knows all and sees my bridegroom with me,
I know it will: and there's the horse's step,
I'll just run out, it is not cold at all.—

Len.
Go, my love,
But you must come to ask your father's blessing,
And bring your Hesperus with you.

Flor.
That I will.

[Exeunt.