SEV. That word, my friend, unsay; tho' grief this bosom tear, The hand that wounds I kiss--love vanquishes despair; Fate only, not Pauline, the foe that I accuse, No plighted faith she breaks who did this hand refuse. Duty--her father--Fate--these willed, she but obeyed; Not hers the woe, the strife that envious Ate made! Untimely, Fortune's shower must drown me, not revive; Too lavish and too late her fatal gifts arrive. The golden apple falls, the gold is turned to dross: When Fate at Fortune mocks, all gain is only loss! FABIAN. Yes, I will go to tell her thou hast drained To the last drop the cup that Fate ordained. She knows thee hero, but she feared that pain Might prove thee also man--by passion slain. She feared Despair, who gains the victory O'er other men, might e'en thy master be! SEV. Peace! Peace! She comes! FABIAN. To thine own self be true! SEV. Nay! True to her! Shall I her life undo? She loves the Armenian! Enter Pauline PAUL. Yes, that debt I pay, Hard--wrung, acquitted,--his my love alway! Who has my hand, he holds--shall hold--my heart! Truth is my guide,--let sophistry depart! Had Fate been kind, then had Pauline been thine, Heart, faith and duty, linked with bliss divine. In vain had fickle Fortune barred the way, Want had been wealth with thee, my guide, my stay, And poverty had fallen from the wings Of soaring love, who mocks the wealth of kings! Not mine to choose, for he--my father's choice-- Must needs be mine; yes, when I heard his voice, Duty must echo be: if thou couldst cast Before my feet an emperor's crown,--a past By worth and glory lit--beloved, adored-- Yet at my father's word, 'Not this thy lord; Take one despised--nay, loathed--to share thy bed,'-- Him, and not thee, beloved, would I wed. Duty, obedience, must have been the part Of me, who own their sway, e'en with a broken heart! SEV. O happy thou! O easy remedy! One poor faint sigh cures love's infirmity! Thy heart thy tool, o'er every passion queen, Beyond all change and chance thou sit'st serene! In easy flow can pass thy love new-born From cold indifference to colder scorn; Such resolution is the equal mate Of god or monster, love, aversion, hate. This fine-spun adamant Ithuriel's spear Could never pierce: for other stuff is here! (Points to himself.) No faint 'Alas!' no swift-repented sigh Can heal the cureless wound from which I die. Sure, reason finds that love his easy prey With Lethe aye at hand to point the way; With ordered fires like thine, I too could smother A heart in leash, find solace in another. Too fair, too dear--from whom the Fates me sever! Thou hast no heart to give--thou lov'dst me never!