Clears up the sky, confused with swaying rack. My life begins a new departure here; And like one dying all my time appears Even on the instant, in eternal light. Ambition struck the hours that measured it. My pact with Comyn was half-hearted. What! The passion that laid hold upon my soul When he was killed--When he was killed? I think I'm to myself too merciful; but yet I seemed to do some bidding:--were there not Alloys of gladness that the bond was loosed, Of jealousy that Comyn barred my way, Mixed in the blow that paid the traitor's wage? There are two voices whispering in my ear: This is the bane of self-communion. Now, Right in thy teeth, or in thy toothless chaps, I swear, antiquity, first thoughts are best: Their treble notes I still shall hearken to, And let no second, murmuring soft, seduce Their clear and forthright meaning. It is gone, The flash of revelation: dallying does With intuition as with other chance. I would to God that I might ever hear The trump of doom pealing along the sky, And know that every common neighbour day Is the last day, and so live on and fight In presence of the judgment. Wishing this Have I not broached the very heart of truth? Each unmarked moment is an end of time, And this begins the future. Enter Isabella. Isabella! Isabella. What in this time of doleful accidents Could move the joyful shouts I heard just now? Bruce. My dearest, what would make you shout for joy? Isabella. I have not shouted since I was a girl; But now, I think, if any happy thing Should spring into my life, I would cry out, I have been so unhappy, and so long. Tell me you'll never leave me any more; Then will I cry, and weep, for very joy. Bruce. Heaven grant it may be so! Isabella. If there is hope!-- Did I not shout now?--I will nurse it warm, And pet it like a darling, till it come To be what I imagine in the fact, Or in the fancy; for I will go mad: I'll bend myself to lose all faculty, All thought, remembrance, all intelligence, So to be capable of company With your phantasm, more real then than life; And be a wild mad woman, if those fears, Those weary absences, those partings pale, And fevered expectations, which have filled The summer of our life with storm and cold, Determine not in peace and halcyon days. You do not love me as I love you; no; Else you would never leave me. Love of power And love of me hold tourney in your breast. Let Will throw down the baton, and declare The love of me the winner, and I'll be Your queen of love; and beautiful as love For man can make a woman. I am proud: When love transfigures me I can conceive How beautiful I am. Stay with me, then, That holy, sweet, and confident desire May light me up a pleasant bower for you: I am, when you are gone, a house forlorn, Cold, desolate, and hasting to decay: Stay, tenant me, preserve me in repair; Only sweet uses keep sweet beauty fair. Bruce.