Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/411

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OTHO THE GREAT.
395
What horrors? Is it not a joyous time?Am I not married to a paragon"Of personal beauty and untainted soul?"A blushing fair-eyed purity? A sylph,Whose snowy timid hand has never sinn'dBeyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself?Albert, you do insult my bride—your mistress—To talk of horrors on our wedding-night!
 Albert. Alas! poor Prince, I would you knew my heart!'Tis not so guilty—
 Ludolph.Hear, he pleads not guilty!You are not? or, if so, what matters it?You have escaped me, free as the dusk air,Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge;I cannot catch you! You should laugh at me,Poor cheated Ludolph! Make the forest hissWith jeers at me! You tremble—faint at once,You will come to again. O cockatrice,I have you! Whither wander those fair eyesTo entice the devil to your help, that heMay change you to a spider, so to crawlInto some cranny to escape my wrath?
 Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dying manDoth operate quietly when his breath is gone:Disjoin those hands—part—part—do not destroyEach other—forget her!—-Our miseriesAre equal shared, and mercy is—
 Ludolph.A boonWhen one can compass it. Auranthe, tryYour oratory; your breath is not so hitch'd.[Albert dies.Ay, stare for help!
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