That crimes like yours if once or twice And reconcile thyself with thine own compounded heart Enriched the Church, and respited from And with thy God, and with the offended hell world. An erring soul which might repent and How hideously look deeds of lust and live: But that the glory and the interest Of the high throne he fills, little consist blood Thro' those snow white and venerable hairs! Your children should be sitting round you now, Which you scarce hide from men's re- But that you fear to read upon their looks Cenci. The third of my possessions The shame and misery you have written volted eyes. Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Where is your wife? Where is your Pope Had sent his architect to view the ground, I little thought he should outwit me so! gentle daughter? Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend Why is she barred from all society That which the vassal threatened to Talk with me, Count,-you know I divulge mean you well. Whose throat is choked with dust for I stood beside your dark and fiery youth Watching its bold and bad career, as his reward. and length of days Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now My fief beyond the Pincian-Cardinal, Wherein to act the deeds which are the One thing, I pray you, recollect hence forth, And so we shall converse with less restraint. A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter- So much that thou mightst honourably He was accustomed to frequent my And vindicate that right with force or And but that there yet remains a deed children's groans, All men enjoy revenge; and most exult And heard his groans, and heard his pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, When this shall be another's, and that mine. And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, until now Any design my captious fancy makes The picture of its wish, and it forms none Knew I not what delight was else on earth, Which now delights me little. I the rather Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals, The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. I rarely kill the body, which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, But such as men like you would start Wherein I feed it with the breath of Is as my natural food and rest debarred For hourly pain. Camillo. Most miserable? Camillo. Hell's most aban Art thou not doned fiend Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from This evening:-no, at midnight and grand saloon. Camillo. Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit CAMILLO. Beatrice. Orsino. Pervert not truth, You remember where we held Cenci. The third of my possessions! That conversation;-nay, we see the spot I must use Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's | Even from this cypress;—two long years sword, are past Falls from my withered hand. But Since, on an April midnight, underneath yesterday The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, There came an order from the Pope to I did confess to you my secret mind. make Orsino. You said you loved me What now I think! Thou, pavement, I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. Ours was a youthful contract, which you which I tread Towards her chamber,-let your echoes Of my imperious step scorning surprise, first Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. And thus I love you still, but holily, You have a sly, equivocating vein Where shall I turn? Even now you As you were not my friend, and as if Great God! that such a father should be mine! But there is mighty preparation made, Attire ourselves in festival array. you In his dark spirit from this act; I none. Discovered that I thought so, with false At supper I will give you the petition: Till when-farewell. smiles Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. Orsino. Farewell. (Exit BEATRICE.) Ah no! forgive me; sorrow makes me Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly seem been; Sterner than else my nature might have But by absolving me from the revenue I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, And they forbode,—but what can they forbode Worse than I now endure? Orsino. relation Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, In all this there is much exaggeration :So that the Pope attend to your com- Old men are testy and will have their plaint. way; Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish ;- A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, Ah me, you are cold! And live a free life as to wine or women, Your utmost skill . . speak but one And with a peevish temper may return To a dull home, and rate his wife and children; (aside) Alas! word Weak and deserted creature that I am, Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [TO ORSINO. Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. This night my father gives a sumptuous I shall be well content if on my con feast, Orsino; he has heard some happy news there, science There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer From the devices of my love—A net And with this outward show of love he From which she shall escape not. mocks Which I have heard him pray for on his And lay me bare, and make me blush And heard the pious cause for which 'tis | I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, given, And we have pledged a health or two together, Will think me flesh and blood as well as you; Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of heart, Too sprightly and companionable a man, To act the deeds that rumour pins on you. Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca ; Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. (To his companion.) I never saw such You hear me not, I tell you they are The tapers that did light them the dark way In which we all demand a common joy, Count. will not The Pope, I think, |