_Alc._ Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. * * * * * Yes! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d My life by every tie--the more I feel Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour’d.... In thy presence here Again I utter’d the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard--he calls, He summons me away--and thou art saved, O my Admetus! In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus. _Alc._ Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch; For I myself e’en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health’s genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days: and he shall live-- Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly. _Eum._ Can it be indeed, Father, loved father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours! _Adm._ There is no joy! Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more! I know not of affection, and I feel No more a father. _Eum._ Oh! what words are these? Are we no more thy children? Are we not Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close; he must return the fond embrace. _Adm._ O children! O my children! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis!--was she not Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er Adored like her before? Yet this is she, The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left Her husband and her infants! This is she, O my deserted children! who at once Bereaves you of your parents.