Puslapio vaizdai
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It is my wont to feel more heartiness When face to face with action. But this deed

Doth wrap itself in doubt and fearfulness. Do I best to confront him at this hour, Even when yon scaffold waiteth for its victim,

And his pale face doth look like martyrdom?
I will not. Out upon my sinking heart!
The standard-bearer fainteth, and my fol-
lowers

Grow slack. I'll hie me to them
And yet, if by the granting him his life
He abdicate
no shifts he abdicate!
Then

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then this offer of the Prince of Wales

This young Charles Stuart - he in our ab

solute power,

As he doth promise if we spare his father. Why, if he come I had not thought of

that

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Well-well

"His last hour disturb'd!"

It shall be thy last hour. "As touching the Prince of Wales' noble offering of himself for me. Look back on my past life, and thou art answer'd!"

Past life! Full of deceit and subtle car

riage.

"I pardon thee and all mine enemies, and may Heaven pardon them!”

What now doth stay to rend away this patch
On our new garment?
England! one hour
gray tyranny is dead!
And in this hand thy future destiny.

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you

I cannot answer for your safe return.

Queen. [Aside.] Sainte Vierge, aidezmoi! This is the man who holds My husband's life within his hands. Ah! could I-Sainte Marie, inspirez-moi, mettez votre force dans mes prières ! I see him as the drowning swimmer sees The distant headland he can never reach. Sir, do not go. I wish to speak to you. Crom. Madam, I wait.

Queen. Oh, sir! the angels wait and

watch your purpose:

Unwritten history pauses for your deed,
To set your name within a shining annal,
Or else to brand it on her foulest page!
Crom. Madam, 't is not for me to answer

you.

And for unwritten history-thou nor I Can brief it in our cause; 't will speak the truth.

England condemns the King, and he shall

die!

Queen. Oh, pity! pity! Hast a human heart?

How canst thou look at me so cruelly?
I look for pity on thy stubborn cheek
As I might place a mirror to dead lips
To find one stain of breath.

The brightest jewel ever set in crown
Were worthless to the glisten of one tear
Upon thy lid -one faint hope-star of mercy.
Be merciful! a queen doth kneel to thee.
Crom. Not to me! Nor am I now

A whit more mov'd because thou art a queen!

Queen.

I am no queen; but a poor stricken woman, On whom this dreadful hour is closing in. [Chimes. The half-hour.

Dost hear the clock? Each second quiver- |

ing on

Is full of horror for both thee and me: Endless remorse thy doom, and sorrow

mine.

Crom. Madam, no more. I shall have

no remorse

For an unhappy duty well perform'd.

Queen. Thou call'st it duty; but all heaven and earth

Shall raise one outraged cry and call it murder;

It shall be written right across the clouds In characters of blood till Heaven hath judged it.

Crom. Nay, you forget! the righteous cause doth prosper.

If this be crime, the hand of Heaven not in it,

Then had thy husband flourish'd; on our side

God's heavy judgment fallen, shame and slaughter.

Queen. God speaketh not in thunder when he judges,

But in the dying moans of those we treasure, And in the silence of our broken hearts! Thou hast a daughter, and her cheek is

pale;

Her days do balance between life and death, Whether they wither or abide with thee. Let him be cruel who hath none to love; But let that father tremble who shall dare Widow another's home! She loves the

King.

Take now his sacred life, and hie thee home. Smile on her, call her to thee, she will linger. Ask for thy welcome, she will give it thee!

A shudder as she meets thee at the door : A cry as thou wouldst think to touch her lips;

A sickening at thy guilty hands' caress! The haunting of a mute reproach shall dwell

Forever in her eyes till they be dead!

Crom. [Moved.] Silence! You speak you know not what. No more ! Thou voice within, why dost thou seem so far?

Shine out, thou fiery pillar! Bring me up From the dead wilderness

Queen. Oh! yield not to that voice, hearken to mercy,

And I will join my prayers to thine henceforth

That thy Elizabeth may live for thee.

Crom. Madam, I came here with intent of mercy,

And with a hope of life.
Queen.
Of life of life!
Crom. I offer'd him his life - he scorn'd

my offer. Queen. No-no he shall not. I am

somewhat faint;

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A living, breathing woman, excellent
In every attribute of womankind.
Gal. Where am I, then?

That seem'd to thaw my marble into flesh. Its cold, hard substance throbb'd with active life;

Why, born into the world My limbs grew supple, and I mov'd — I

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Is this the world?

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It is.

This room is portion of a house; The house stands in a grove; the grove

itself

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ness;

I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold, immovable identity.

I knew that I was stone, and knew no more!
Then, by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen darkly and imperfectly, yet seen -
The walls surrounding me, and I alone.
That pedestal—that curtain- - then a voice
That call'd on Galatea! At that word,
Which seem'd to shake my marble to the
core,

That which was dim before came evident;
Sounds that had humm'd around me, indis-

tinct,

Vague, meaningless, seem'd to resolve
themselves

Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded by a glow

liv'd!

Liv'd in the ecstacy of new-born life!
Liv'd in the love of him that fashion'd me!
Liv'd in a thousand tangled thoughts of
hope,

Love, gratitude,
themselves

thoughts that resolv'd

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O woman-perfect in thy loveliness!
Gal. What is that word? Am I a wo-
man?

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A being strongly fram'd To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can

avert;

To work and toil for her, that she may rest;

To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;

To fight and die for her, that she may

live!

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[Aside.] There's a diplomacy in that reply. Gal. My love is different in kind to thine :

I am no sculptor, and I've done no work, Yet I do love thee: say, what love is mine?

Pyg. Tell me its symptoms, then I'll answer thee.

Gal. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.

A sense that I am made by thee for thee; That I've no will that is not wholly thine; That I've no thought, no hope, no enter

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This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold! [Hands her a mirror.

Gal. How beautiful! I'm very glad to know

That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
That aught could be more beautiful than
thou,

Till I beheld myself. Believe me, love,
I could look in this mirror all day long.
So I'm a woman?

Pyg.
There's no doubt of that!
Gal. Oh happy maid, to be so passing

fair!

And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze, At will, upon so beautiful a face!

Pyg. Hush, Galatea! in thine inno

cence

Thou sayest things that others would reprove.

Gal. Indeed, Pygmalion? Then it is wrong

To think that one is exquisitely fair?

Pyg. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment That every other woman shares with thee; They think it, but they keep it to themselves.

Gal. And is thy wife as beautiful as I? Pyg. No, Galatea, for in forming thee I took her features - lovely in themselves

And in the marble made them lovelier still.

Gal. [Disappointed.] Oh! then I'm not original?

Pyg. That is

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Well-no

thou hast indeed a prototype ; But though in stone thou didst resemble

her,

In life the difference is manifest.

Gal. I'm very glad I am lovelier than

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