_Bal._ The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits us,— Thy presence is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? _Voice_ (_distinctly_). “Who have loved thee so long, In wealth and woe among, And is thy heart so strong? Say nay! say nay!” _Bal._ Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember! _Pol._ Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember. (_going._) Let us descend. Believe me I would give, Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice— “To gaze upon that veilèd face, and hear Once more that silent tongue.” _Bal._ Let me beg you, sir, Descend with me—the Duke may be offended. Let us go down, I pray you. _Voice_ (_loudly_). “Say nay!—say nay!” _Pol._ (_aside_). ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the voice Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay! (_approaching the window._) Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay. Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate, Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make Apology unto the Duke for me; I go not down to-night. _Bal._ Your lordship’s pleasure Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. _Pol._ Good-night, my friend, good-night. IV The Gardens of a Palace—Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN. _Lalage._ And dost thou speak of love To _me_, Politian?—dost thou speak of love To Lalage?—ah woe—ah woe is me! This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed! _Politian._ Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage— Be comforted! I know—I know it all, And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes! Thou askest me if I could speak of love, Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee— Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling._) Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_—_love thee_—_love thee_; Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and woe, _I love thee_. Not mother, with her first-born on her knee, Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime, Burned there a holier fire than burneth now Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love? (_arising._) Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes— Thy beauty and thy woes. _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 dishonoured Lalage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory?— My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honours of thy house, And with thy glory?