_Lalage_. 'Tis well. There _is_ a vow were fitting should be made-- A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow! _Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well! _Lalage_. Father, this zeal is any thing but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register A vow--a vow. (_he hands her his own_.) Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no! (_shuddering_.) Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,-- _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed-- And the deed's register should tally, father! (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.) Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in Heaven! _Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter! And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid-- Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine-- Pause ere too late--oh be not--be not rash! Swear not the oath--oh swear it not! _Lalage_. 'Tis sworn! II. ROME. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar, his friend. _Baldazzar_.----Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not Give way unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, And live, for now thou diest! _Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar, I live--I live. _Baldazzar_. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus. _Politian_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. Command me, sir, what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir. _Baldazzar_. To the field then--to the field, To the senate or the field. _Politian_. Alas! Alas! {15} There is an imp would follow me even there! There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there! There is----what voice was that? _Baldazzar_. I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And the echo of thine own. _Politian_. Then I but dreamed. _Baldazzar_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls-- And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices. _Politian_. It _is_ a phantom voice, Didst thou not hear it _then_? _Baldazzar_. I heard it not.