_Opas_. The royal threat still sounds along these halls; Hardly his foot hath past them, and he flees From his own treachery—all his pride, his hopes, Are scatter’d at a breath; even courage fails Now falsehood sinks from under him: behold, Again art thou where reign’d thy ancestors; Behold the chapel of thy earliest prayers, Where I, whose chains are sunder’d at thy sight Ere they could close around these aged limbs, Received and blest thee, when thy mother’s arm Was doubtful if it loosed thee! with delight Have I observed the promises we made Deeply imprest and manfully perform’d. Now, to thyself beneficent, O prince, Never henceforth renew those weak complaints Against Covilla’s vows and Julian’s faith, His honour broken, and her heart estranged. O, if thou holdest peace or glory dear, Away with jealousy—brave Sisabert, Smite from thy bosom, smite that scorpion down; It swells and hardens amid mildewed hopes, O’erspreads and blackens whate’er most delights, And renders us, haters of loveliness, The lowest of the fiends: ambition led The higher on, furious to disposess, From admiration sprung and phrenzied love. This disingenuous soul-debasing passion, Rising from abject and most sordid fear, Stings her own breast with bitter self-reproof, Consumes the vitals, pines, and never dies. Love, Honour, Justice, numberless the forms, Glorious and high the stature, she assumes; But watch the wandering changeful mischief well, And thou shalt see her with low lurid light Search where the soul’s most valued treasure lies, Or, more embodied to our vision, stand With evil eye, and sorcery hers alone, Looking away her helpless progeny, And drawing poison from its very smiles. For Julian’s truth have I not pledged my own? Have I not sworne Covilla weds no other? _Sis._ Her persecutor have not I chastized, Have not I fought for Julian, won the town, And liberated thee? _Opas_. But left for him The dangers of pursuit, of ambuscade, Of absence from thy high and splendid name. _Sis._ Do probity and truth want such supports? _Opas_. Gryphens and eagles, ivory and gold, Can add no clearness to the lamp above, But many look for them in palaces Who have them not, and want them not, at home. Virtue and valour and experience Are never trusted by themselves alone Further than infancy and idiocy; The men around him, not the man himself, Are looked at, and by these is he prefer’d: ’Tis the green mantle of the warrener And his loud whistle, that alone attract The lofty gazes of the noble herd: And thus, without thy countenance and help, Feeble and faint is still our confidence, Brief perhaps our success.