PAUL. Thou gavest him my hand, 'twas at thy word I gave both love and duty; what I give I take not back; oh, Polyeucte must live! For his dear sake I quenched another flame Most pure. Is he my lord alone in name? O, by my blind and swift obedience paid To thy command--be thy hard words unsaid! I gave thee all a daughter had to give, Grant, father, this one prayer--Let Polyeucte live! By thy stern power, which now I only fear, Make thou that power benignant, honoured, dear! Thou gav'st that gift unsought,--that gift restore! I claim it at the giver's hand once more! FELIX. Importunate! Although my heart is soft, It is not wax,--and these entreaties oft Repeated waste thy breath, and vex mine ear, For man is deaf to what he will not hear. _I am the master!_ This let all men know, And if thou force that note thou'lt find 'tis so. Prepare to see thy cursed Christian fool, Do thou caress when I have scourged the mule,-- Go! vex no more a loving father's ear, From Polyeucte's self win what thou hold'st so dear. PAUL. In pity!---- FELIX. Leave me, leave me here alone!-- Say more--my goaded heart will turn to stone; Vex me no more--I will not be denied! Go, save thy madman from his suicide! (Exit Pauline.) How met Nearchus death? ALBIN. The fiend abhorred He hailed,--embraced: 'For Christ!' his latest word; No sigh, no tear,--he passed without amaze Adown the narrow vale with upward gaze. FELIX. And he--his friend? ALBIN. Is, as I said, unmoved He looks on death but as a friend beloved, He clasped the scaffold as a guide most sure, And, in his prison, he can still endure. FELIX. Oh, wretched that I am! ALBIN. All pity thee. FELIX. With reason greater than they know. Ah, me! Thought surges upon thought, and has its will, Care, gnawing upon care, my soul must kill; Love--hate--fear--pain: I am of each the prey, I grope for light, but never find the day! Oh, what I suffer thou canst not conceive, Each passion rages, but can ne'er relieve; For I have noble thoughts that die still-born, And I have thoughts so base my soul I scorn. I love the foolish wretch who is my son, I hate the folly which hath all undone; I mourn his death,--yet, if I Polyeucte save, I see of all my hopes the cruel grave! 'Gainst Gods and Emperor too sore the strife, For my renown I fear,--fear for my life. I must myself undo to save my son, For, should I spare him, then am I undone! ALBIN. Decius a father is, and must excuse A father's love--oh, he will not refuse!