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ACT V. SCENE. II.
Draws off, discovers Alcippus rising from the Couch.
Alcip.
I cannot sleep, my soul is now unfurnish'd
Of all that sweetness which allow'd it rest.
—'Tis flown, 'tis flown, for ever from my breast.
And in its room eternal discords dwell,
Such as out-do the black intrigues of Hell—
—Oh my fortune—
[weeps
—What's here—Alass, that which I dare not look on,
And yet, why should I shun that image here,
Which I continually about me beare,
But why, dear Picture, art thou still so gay,
Since she is gone, from whom these charms were borrow'd,
Those eyes that gave this speaking life to thine,
Those lovely eyes are clos'd in endless darkness,
There's not a star in all the face of Heaven,
But now out-shines those Suns.
Suns at noon day dispens'd not kindlier influences:
And thou blest mirrour, that hast of't beheld
That face, which nature never made a fairer,
Thou that so oft her beauties back reflected,
And made her know what wondrous power there lay
In every feature of that lovely face.
But she will smile no more! no more! no more!
—Why, who shall hinder her? Death, cruel death,
—'Twas I that murther'd her—
Thou ly'st—thou durst as well be damn'd as touch her,
She was all sacred, and that impious hand
That had prophanely touch'd her,
Had wither'd from the body.
—I lov'd her—I ador'd her, and could I,
Could I approach her with unhallowed thoughts.
—No, no, I durst not.—
But as devoutest Pilgrims do the shrine,