_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl, Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me! How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonored Lalage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory-- My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honors of thy house, And with thy glory? _Pol_. Speak not to me of glory! I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian? Do I not love--art thou not beautiful-- What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it: By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-- By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter-- By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-- There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it under foot. What matters it-- What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonored and forgotten Into the dust--so we descend together? Descend together--and then--and then perchance-- _Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Pol_. And then perchance _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still-- _Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Pol_. And still _together_--_together_. _Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester! Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. _Pol_. O Lalage! (_throwing himself upon his knee_.) And lovest thou _me_? _Lal_. Hist! hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-- A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-- Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (_walks across and returns_.) I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! _Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom.