University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—THE PALACE OF THE LADY DE COMMENES.
Louisa and Maria discovered. Louisa on a couch.
Louisa.
If it be so—and sure I think it is—
I am not sorry that I tasted of it:
In death I shall rejoin my Claudio—
It were no happiness to stay from him.

Maria.
And would you, lady, die?

Louisa.
Oh yes, Maria,
Death is repose with Claudio; I have felt
Even from then a gradual decay;
It grows upon me in a stilly coldness;
Yet ere it reaches to my heart, Cimaro,
I trust, will come—I'd see him ere I die.

Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
Madam, the lords Lodovico and Manlio
Enquire of your health.

Louisa.
'Tis well; I'll see them.
(Exit Att.)
I would have witnesses.

Enter Lodovico and Manlio.
Lodovico.
How fare you, lady?

Louisa.
Oh well beyond all hope; calm as the night;
I've slept not—yet my mind has been with angels.
Methought I saw my Claudio stretch his arm
Tow'rds me from heav'n, and with sounds seraphic,
Woo me to come to him—I shall obey him.

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
Madam, my lord Cimaro.

Louisa.
Let me see him.
(Exit Attendant.)
My lords, I pray you stay; I have some words
To speak; and be you witness of his answers.

Enter Raffaelle.
Raffaelle.
I cannot bid you a good morrow, lady;
Your hope and mine is gone; and common greetings
Sound dull, and heartless, in this wretched time.

Louisa.
Aye, my good lord, and sounds from hollow hearts
Are poor indeed to me.

Raffaelle.
(Aside)
This is most strange!
And yet believe me 'tis a happiness
Unhoped for, thus to see you: I thought not
Even that mind so much above its sorrows.

Louisa.
No, didst thou think that I should wail my loss;
'Tis but a parting, and we all must die.
My griefs are not of earth: should I invest
My sorrows with the pageantry of woe?
I have a hope too bright to mix with grief—
Thou couldst not think that I should live, Cimaro.

Raffaelle.
Live! lady.

Louisa.
Live! didst thou not drug the bowl
For me as well as Claudio?

Raffaelle.
I! dear lady!
For thee!

Louisa.
Thou canst not look like innocence,
Though thou art full of wiles, this is no time
To mask my words—I am about to die.

Raffaelle.
To die! what mean you? you! you! die! die!

Louisa.
Yes, lord;
I should not be so calm else; but the cup
That kill'd my Claudio, lent its help to me.

Raffaelle.
Thou didst not drink—'twas poison!

Louisa.
Aye, I feel it.

Raffaelle.
Foil'd! foil'd! foil'd! foil'd! damnation!

Louisa.
Lord Cimaro,
You put the poison there.

Raffaelle.
Who saw me do't?
Yet I care not; did you drink much? no matter—
A drop were a slow death to fifty men:
But did you taste it?

Louisa.
Mark him, lords! my life
But quivers on my lip. Claudio, I come.
Cimaro, thou art guilty! Heav'n forgive thee;
There was a strain of music, heard you not?
Soft, soft and tender, of sweet melancholy;
Nor see you there—but your's are mortal senses—
Ah Claudio—I come—I come.

(Dies.)
Raffaelle.
Dead! deep damnation rest on all the earth!
Sweep from its face all things that dwell on it,
And people it alone with direful plagues:
I'd not kill thee, Louisa! O 'tis mockery:
Pour down your fires, rive me to the earth,
Ye dull unthinking heav'ns! why gaze you at me?
Yes, 'twas I killed him—her—all—
I have accomplish'd the decrees of fate.
You, you, you, petty spirits, move half lifeless;
And, being, are not—fools, fools, in my fortune,
Things nobler were encompass'd.

Lodovico.
He is mad.

Raffaelle.
Mad! reptile! are all mad that tow'r above you,
And do what you daren't dream? My deeds are spent,
Idle as ether—vagrant as the wind—
Hopeless and fineless—I have done my part—
'Tis ended—all, all—here: I had one hope,
One end, one aim—the loadstar of my life—
And it is gone;—my powers are gone with it;
She's dead! Oh! would that I could weep one tear;
It would allay the fever of my soul:—
How—not one drop?—it gushes from my heart;
There, there, there, there.—I'll not endure the gaze,
And taunts, and gibes, that wait upon my fortunes;
Each fool will bless himself he'as done no murder:
And who would live, when thou and all are gone!
(Stabs himself.)
You wonder yet—'tis much; then I'm not fall'n
Beneath myself; I yet can scorn your follies;
While fate crouch'd to me I could live; and now
Its pow'r is not so great but I can die:
This, this is well (they offer to assist him)
: no, no—away, away—
I did despise you living—and my death
Is sacred to myself. Oh! (they observe him— he suppresses his agony.)
ha! ha! ha!

(Dies.)
The Curtain Falls.