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Cleom. For what I see, or only think I see,
Is like a glimpse of moonshine, streak'd with red;
A shuffled, sullen, and uncertain light,

That dances through the clouds, and shuts again:
Then 'ware a rising tempest on the main.

Cas. Know you, that death stands ready at the gate;
That I forbid him, and suspend your fate;
The king's short absence leaves me absolute;
When he returns, th' inevitable ill

Is past my pow'r, and may be past my will:
Unhappy man! prevent thy destiny;

Speak one kind word to save thy life and me.

Cleom. Be answer'd, and expect no more reply.

Cas. Disdain has swell'd him up, and chok'd his breath; Sullen and dumb, and obstinate to death.

No signs of pity in his face appear;

Look! if th' ungrateful creature shed one tear!

Cramm'd with his pride, he leaves no room within

For sighs to issue out, or love to enter in. [He turns away. What! dost thou turn thy face in my despite?

Am I a toad? a monster to thy sight?

Farewell fond pity then: as thou from me,
So thy good fortune turns her face from thee:
Left, scorn'd, and loath'd, and all without relief,
Revenge succeeds to love, and rage to grief:
Tempests and whirlwinds through my bosom move,
Heave up, and madly mount my soul above
The reach of pity, or the bounds of love.

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Alphonso. If more be wanting on so plain a theme,
Think on the slipp'ry state of human things,
The strange vicissitudes, and sudden turns
Of war, and fate recoiling on the proud,
To crush a merciless and cruel victor.

Think there are bounds of fortune, set above;
Periods of time, and progress of success,

Which none can stop before th' appointed limits,
And none can push beyond.

Alph. Sir, I must speak

Veramond. Dare not, I charge thee, dare not.
Alph. Not vindicate my honour?

By Heav'n I will, to all the world, to you:

My honour is my own, and not deriv'd

From this frail body, and this earth you gave me;
But that ethereal spark, which Heav'n inspir'd
And kindled in my new-created soul.

Song of Jealousy

What state of life can be so blest
As love, that warms a lover's breast?
Two souls in one, the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require!
But if in heav'n a hell we find,
'Tis all from thee,

O jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind.

All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine, and perfect love:

In absence, or unkind disdain,

Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain.
But ah, no cure but death we find,
To set us free

From jealousy!
O jealousy! &c.

False in thy glass all objects are,
Some set too near, and some too far:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light.
All torments of the damn'd we find
In only thee,

O jealousy! &c.

Ximena. A mighty secret labours in my soul,
And like a rushing stream breaks down the dam:
This day must give it vent, it rests in you
To make it end in a tempestuous night,
Or in a glorious evening.

Alph. Proud of my exile, with erected face, I leave your court, your town, and your dominions. Pleas'd that I love, at least without a crime; Lighter by what I lost, I tread in air,

Unhappy, but triumphant in despair.

Celidea. No, my lord,

Victoria is not formed of steel, but marble,
Which is not made to melt, but flies the fire;
And neither yields nor softens to the flames.
Gain her esteem at least, her love is hopeless.
Garcia. Esteem, a scanty, mean reward of passion,
That pays not half the value of the loss!

Cel. Pay scorn with scorn, and make revenge a pleasure; So generous minds should do, and so should I;

What needs there more?

You see who loves you not

And

Xim. And she would say, you may behold who loves you;

But maiden bashfulness has tied her tongue:

Look on her eyes, they speak.

Cel. [Softly.] A language that they never spoke before.
Xim. Mark how she whispers, like a western wind
Which trembles through the forest; she, whose eyes
Meet ready victory where'er they glance;

Whom gazing crowds admire, whom nations court,
And (did her praise become a mother's mouth)
One who could change the worship of all climates,
And make a new religion where she comes:

Unite the diff'ring faith of all the world,

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Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features,
Seem to be drawn by Love's own hand; by Love
Hinself in love: but oh, 'tis now too late,

My eyes have drank a poison in before;
A former basilisk has seen me first.

Yet know, fair princess, if there were a part
In all my breast, that could receive a wound,
Your eyes could only give it.

ON THE DEATH OF CROMWELL. 1659.

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.

ASTREA REDUX. 1660.

Now with a general peace the world was blest,
While ours, a world divided from the rest,
A dreadful quiet felt, and worser far

Than arms, a sullen interval of war:

Thus when black clouds draw down the lab'ring skies,
Ere yet abroad the winged thunder flies,

A horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.

Not tied to rules of policy, you find
Revenge less sweet than a forgiving mind.
Thus, when th' Almighty would to Moses give
A sight of all he could behold, and live,
A voice before his entry did proclaim
Long-suff'ring, goodness, mercy, in his name.
Your pow'r to justice doth submit your cause,
Your goodness only is above the laws;

Whose rigid letter, while pronounc'd by you,
Is softer made. So winds that tempests brew,
When through Arabian groves they take their flight,
Made wanton with rich odours, lose their spite.

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