_Lal_. Politian! Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy--a land new found-- Miraculously found by one of Genoa-- A thousand leagues within the golden west? A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,-- And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come? _Pol_. Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee And worship thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me? _Lal_. A deed is to be done-- Castiglione lives! _Pol_. And he shall die! (_Exit_.) _Lal_. (_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian! Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian! I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word, To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone-- Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go. Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone-- Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well! So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure, 'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas! V. The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.